


Like a Hawke

by irabelaslethallan (NeverendingTori)



Series: Daedra Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3881194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverendingTori/pseuds/irabelaslethallan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke was never under any illusions that her life would be easy.  And to make matters worse, she found herself falling for an elf with a short temper and a haunted past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A series of vignettes that I originally posted over on FFnet in whatever order they came to me. I've since decided to put them in order and copy them over here in preparation for a short serial I'm writing about this Hawke's role in Inquisition. The scenes range from in-game cutscenes, to in-between moments, to Hawke and Fenris' lives together post-Kirkwall. 
> 
> If anyone recognizes me from over on FFnet (I was known as both innocence.INSTINCT and BuriedBeneath), feel free to make yourself known! I'm relatively new to AO3 and I'm still getting the hang of things so I'd love to find old FFnet friends on here.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

**Wolf Hunt  
** Part One

The hovel was empty, or at least, it  _looked_  that way when Hawke and the others stepped inside it.  The back room was empty as well, but when she made to approach the last door, she spotted two explosive barrels set on either side of the frame that were far too meticulously placed for her taste, and she raised a hand—and an eyebrow, letting out a quiet huff of laughter, "Hold up."

She eyed the set-up with a hand on her hip, smiling slightly to herself, "What's wrong with this picture?"

Perhaps it was the fact that her companions were either rogues, or a mage who'd spent her entire life at a rogue's side (she'd have taken Aveline, but once the guardswoman found out lyrium was involved, she'd opted out, and Hawke certainly wasn't going to force her), but they all shook their heads in turn.  Even Bethany had a knowing look about her.

"Now, I've seen my fair share of obvious traps.  While this certainly isn't the  _most_  obvious, it definitely deserves a place among my list of the  _least subtle,_ " Hawke whispered.

"Well," Varric mused from her left as she crouched low, carefully studying the barrels and withdrawing a pair of tiny shears from a pouch at her belt, "I guess we know where all the smugglers are... and Anso's precious cargo."

The band of smugglers—or thieves—(Hawke wasn't sure what to call them really.  Perhaps both?) was rather a lot smaller than she had anticipated, she had to admit.  Frankly, she was a little disappointed, and was wondering where they all were as she withdrew her blade from the last smuggler's back and surveyed the damage.

No serious injuries to speak of, and Bethany was making quick work of the few injuries that were present.

Expecting a chest filled with lyrium, Hawke's surprise was palpable when she flipped back the lid and felt her eyes narrowing at the wooden bottom in irritation, "Empty."

Varric had no problem voicing his frustration while she slammed the lid of the chest back down, shaking her head.  "Waste of bloody time," he said.  "Who put us up to this?"

She sighed, "Looks like we have no choice but to go tell Anso his cargo is still missing.  Hurrah."

The half-circle that surrounded them upon their exit of the hovel was really only enough to make Hawke shrug, at first, vaguely aware of the fact that she and her companions were not who they were looking for.  Yet, they still attacked.  Go figure.

She drew her daggers and immediately immersed herself in the shadows while Isabela diverted attention away from Varric and Bethany.  These men were different from those inside the house, she noticed.  There was a major difference of appearances, and the presence of whips at their belts (that she used to her advantage more than once in battle, grabbing the bundled length of leather and pulling them close enough to plunge her dagger into their backs) set her on edge.  These men were  _definitely_ not from around here.

It was as one of the men fell dead at her feet that she felt an unseen force collide with her from behind, knocking her to the ground and sending her into a roll until she slammed into a wall.  _Oh, lovely.  Reinforcements._ Her vision blurred and her left arm throbbed as she hobbled back to a (more or less) standing position, using the wall for support, "Okay...  Ow..."

Shaking the dizziness from her head, she saw the mage in the far corner, surrounded by swirls of a shimmering magic shield, and whirled to find her archer, who was busy tossing a smoke bomb into the fray of enemies and using the commotion to retreat to a safer place of attack.  Bethany launched a bolt of lightning at the leader, and the electricity shuddered through the woman's body, stunning her while Isabela took advantage of the opportunity, plunging her daggers into the woman's back.

The mage's shield wore off, then, and Hawke noticed him lifting his staff, purple light crackling around the man's hands.

"Oh no you don't," she muttered, retrieving a flask from her belt and whipping it at the ground directly at the mage's feet, smiling as his spell was interrupted and he stumbled backwards in a gale of smoke.  She used the time to sprint up to meet the mage, but he recovered before she could get close enough for her daggers to make contact.  The familiar drop in temperature had her back flipping out of range of his magic as spears of ice shot up from the ground.  (All of those training sessions with Bethany never ceased to pay off when she found herself fighting mages.)  He used the reprieve to disappear out of sight, and she whirled to find him, her breath clouding before her.  "Damn it!  Varric!  Find the mage!"

It was the rush of air that gave the mage away before Varric's voice bellowed her name from across the battlefield.  It came from behind, whooshing past her and blowing wild strands of deep red hair in front of her face.  She spun, and heat rose up her left side, flames bursting forth from his staff with a blast of hot air, but suddenly, she wasn't there anymore, and her dagger was stabbing through his soft robes and into his back.

As the mage crumpled into a pile at her feet, she shook her head at the blackened leather covering her left arm and side and whistled.  "Sneaky bastard almost had me."

The rest of the enemies fell to her companions then, so Hawke sheathed her daggers and took a moment to survey their handiwork before joining Isabela in looting the bodies for anything useful.

"What do you think?" Hawke asked, pulling a whip free and examining it thoughtfully, "Slavers?"

"Definitely," stated the pirate.

"But who was the elf that woman mentioned?"

Isabela chuckled, "Perhaps we should have kept her alive and asked her?"

Varric grunted and gestured to an identically armoured man stepping down the stairs to the Alienage, looking every bit as furious as she would be if she were a slaver and her entire company of fellow slavers was slaughtered at the hands of four strangers, "Something tells me we're about to find out."

"I don't know who you are, friend, but you made a serious mistake coming here."  He turned his head to the right slightly as they approached, beckoning to someone unseen and around the corner up the stairs, "Lieutenant!  I want everyone in the clearing!  Now!"

Hawke had opened her mouth to protest, something along the lines of,  _I'm not your_ _ **friend**_ _, pal._   But the sight of the supposed lieutenant staggering forward down the steps, blood flowing through the gaps in his armour like a river, caused her words to leave her.  He fell in a heap upon the landing, and her breath followed her words as a tall elf with unnaturally white hair stepped over the body like it was nothing.  The elf didn't cast so much as a glance towards the dead lieutenant, nor his superior in his approach.  As he did so, Hawke noticed that his dark skin was marked by swirling white lines that crept up his arms and neck like vines, disappearing beneath his tailored leather armour and a battle-worn (but well-maintained) metal breastplate.  The hilt of a sword as long as she was tall protruded from over his shoulder.

"Your men are dead, and your trap has failed.  I suggest running back to your master while you can." 

The elf had a gravelly baritone voice that caused a shiver to wash down her back, and her words suddenly escaped her for the second time that night as he stopped at the foot of the stairs, studying Hawke and her companions with a look she couldn't read.  His eyes were a beautiful moss green that threatened to swallow her whole, and (though his face was kept in a controlled neutral state) as expressive as Isabela in a drunken stupor.

The commander's face darkened to a scowl.  Apparently, he wasn't going to take the advice, and his hand clamped down on the elf's left shoulder from behind.  "You're going nowhere, slave!"

Hawke wasn't exactly certain what happened; only that in the space of two seconds, there was a flash of blue, and the elf's clawed gauntlet disappeared into the man's chest deep enough to reach his elbow.  The leader let out a sickening gurgle, his face locked into a permanent expression of surprise as the elf mercilessly ripped his hand back out and the man dropped stone dead at his bare feet.  "I am  _not_  a slave," the elf grumbled, turning back to face them again.

Only then was she aware of the fact that her mouth was hanging open.  Perhaps she should have been terrified by the display, but instead, she was utterly fascinated, and for the third time in the space of only a few moments, her words completely abandoned her, "Wha- ...  How- ..."

"Are you  _speechless_?"  Varric asked wryly from his position at her right side, "Mark this day on the calendar!"

"I apologize," the elf's gravelly baritone cut in before she could reply.  "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I had no idea they'd be so... _numerous_."

When it became apparent that she was still searching for words, Bethany coughed behind her, and Hawke  _finally_  found her voice again, shaking the surprise from her head and forcing herself to concentrate on the situation before her, "S-slavers.  Right."  She rose a hand to her forehead, cursing her entirely  _eloquent_  response before managing to piece together a somewhat more reputable reply:  "Those men were after you, I take it?"

"Correct."  He stared at her inquisitively, "You are Hawke, yes?"

Attempting to regain her composure (and her dignity), she folded her arms across her chest in an attempt to look at least a little intimidating, and deserving of her apparent reputation, "Who's asking?"

"My name is Fenris," he explained.  "These men were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property; namely myself."

Hawke couldn't claim to have much experience with slaves, but the picture that came to mind when she thought of the word  _slave_  was certainly not this white-haired elf, who was strangely polite and articulate, and looked for all the world like he could tear a man in two with his bare hands, despite his slim elven stature.  The idea that he had been a slave was a reality she found hard to believe, and yet she found herself believing it just the same.

"They were trying to lure me into the open," he was saying.  "Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone.  Thankfully, Anso chose wisely."

Hawke furrowed her brow, "Everything Anso said was a lie, then?"

"Not everything.  Your employer was simply not who you believed."

She shook her head, her hand raising to her chin as an eyebrow lifted in curiosity, "Still, that sounds like a lot of effort to find one slave."

"It is," he responded simply.

She eyed the intricate white lines crawling up his arms and neck, and gestured to them vaguely, "Does this have something to do with those markings?"

"Yes," he responded, and his voice trembled with the sound of a light almost-chuckle as he extended his arms out before him, "I imagine I must look strange to you."

Hawke immediately thought of a few much more  _appropriate_  words to describe the way he looked, and then mentally slapped herself for getting distracted, as he continued, his voice and eyes darkening with what she recognized as anger, and yet laced with an unspoken pain she couldn't even begin to fathom.

"I did not receive these markings by choice.  Even so, they have served me well.  Without them I would still be a slave."

She shrugged, then realized immediately how rude that must have seemed after what he'd just said, so she attempted to reconcile before he could say anything:  "Well, I guess Anso's job did seem a little  _too_  easy.  The men in the house weren't exactly  _intelligent_  in their battle plan, and the one trap they left was simply atrocious."

If he was offended, he didn't show it.  "Perhaps the deception was unnecessary," he said.  "If so, I am sorry.  I have become too accustomed to hiding."

"Well, I'm happy I helped."  Her mouth took on a wry tilt, "I'm certainly not going to miss a few dead slavers."

He broke eye-contact with her, but she briefly noticed—shame?—revealed through his gaze before it fell to his bare feet.  As her eyes followed his downward, she realized that the markings marred even the tops of his feet and extended down the lengths of his toes.  What—or who—exactly could have done that to him?

"I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain."

Hawke felt her heart sink at that which she knew was truth.  Idealism was hard to come by, nowadays, especially after working under Meeran for a year in the Red Iron.  She'd seen many of the best and worst, and too often, it was the best who'd received the short end of the stick at the hands of the worst.

Before she really had a chance to understand it, she was following him up the stairs out of the Alienage, past the gates of Lowtown and into Hightown where his former master was apparently staying in some mansion.  Not that she cared, really.  She wouldn't mind wiping a few more slavers off the face of the earth, and when she said as much, he gave her a little side-smile that caused her heart to skip a beat.

Maker, she could already tell it was going to be a long night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wolf Hunt  
** Part Two

The fire tore through the first onslaught of shades and Fenris felt his eyes narrow, seeing the young dark-haired girl in his peripherals, brandishing a wicked-looking staff from behind Hawke, who spent the majority of time fending off the enemies who closed in on the younger girl.

Yet, while the blood began to boil in his veins, it was still Hawke who managed to catch his eye and curiosity.  She fought with incredible speed and agility, striking at the shades when they least expected it--often getting a lethal blow with the first hit of her two menacingly sharp daggers before back-flipping out of range and returning to the safety of the shadows, where she could find a new foe.  She was fascinating in battle and he was impressed by what he saw. 

The other rogue woman fought in much the same style, of course.  She was graceful, but her movements were somewhat exaggerated, and her expression was filled with complete joy, hearty laughter following her around the battlefield.  Hawke's face, however, was kept calmly determined and collected.  Occasionally, he would catch a glimpse of a feral grin pulling the side of her mouth as she rounded a particularly tough opponent, in which he noticed a little of the levity he'd seen earlier in the Alienage from her.  It was unexpected from a mercenary of her apparent reputation at the time, yet as he watched her fight, the more believable it seemed to be.

While the two rogues fought in similar styles, the differences were clear.  It was as if the dark-haired woman requested attention--indeed, she _demanded_ it, while Hawke seemed to _command_ it with the air of a natural-born leader.  But the dichotomy between her light and joking manner and her natural ability to lead seemed... off.  Her demeanour was peculiar, that much was certain.

Regardless, she was a quick and graceful terror, seeming to slip out of her enemies' grasp as if she was intangible.  Though he knew that was not the case (he was sort of an expert in that department), it was... curious.

The search continued, and the most infuriating part of the night (aside from Danarius nowhere to be found) was the fact that he'd left his back unprotected while three shades approached him from the front.  The mage was the one who saved him.  He felt the temperature drop behind him, a shriek ringing out through the halls, and once he'd taken care of the enemies before him with one wide swipe of his massive sword, he whirled only to see another shade impaled on a set of sharp icicles protruding unnaturally from the mansion's floor.

He simply stared at the girl, torn between offering her a nod of thanks or his customary scowl of disapproval for having been saved by a  _mage_ , of all things.

When the shades and demons were cleared from the last remaining room, Fenris could not shake the disappointment at finding the mansion completely empty of mortal life--aside from himself and his unlikely companions.  Bitter rage at all of their wasted effort rose up his back as he took a controlled breath in through his nose. 

"Gone," he muttered, his shoulders falling as he let out the breath with a sigh.  He paced the room like a caged wolf, grumbling a few choice words in Tevene under his breath. _  
_

Hawke was looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.  He was blathering on and she was watching him and he was finding it hard to concentrate with his anger at losing Danarius and being saved by a _mage_ , and the unfamiliar sensation Hawke's emerald eyes boring into his caused to churn within him, and Maker  _damn_  her sympathy of a situation she couldn't even begin to understand!

Realizing that this woman and her companions had only ever  _helped_ him, and that she was not deserving of his anger, he turned from her, telling them to help themselves to whatever loot they could find and stalked out of the mansion, "I... need some air."

They inevitably followed him outside, purses jingling with the fruits of their labour from the night, stopping when they lay eyes on his form.  Plagued by unease, he was leaning up against the mansion's outer wall, tense.  Hawke looked at him with that same expression from earlier, and he felt the anger surge as his gaze swept past her to meet with the dark-haired mage standing behind her before returning to Hawke again, "You harbour a viper in your midst," he said.  "It will turn on you and strike when you least expect.  That is in its nature."

The transition from empathy to curiosity to cold anger was nearly tangible as he watched her face darken to a scowl, and her eyes narrow to slits as her arms crossed over her chest, "You do realize this is my  _sister_  you're talking about, right?" she spat, the curiosity and sympathy gone now.  "She's stronger than you think, and she doesn't have to prove anything to you."

"You tell him, Sis," the mage interjected.

For some reason that escaped him at the time, Fenris found himself wanting to amend the offence he'd caused the leader of the small band, and appease the dark scowl marring her admittedly attractive features, and so he held out his hands in supplication, "I'm not blind.  I know magic has its uses, and there are undoubtedly mages with good intentions."  He looked pointedly at her sister here, before turning back to Hawke again, "But even the best-intentioned mage can fall prey to temptation, and then their power is a curse to inflict on others."

"No one's stopping you from moving on, you know," the younger sister said, planting her hand on her hip.

"You have got to be kidding me," Hawke muttered under her breath, unaware that he could still hear her--or perhaps she _was_ aware, and just didn't care.  Her voice rose back to its normal volume as she took a step toward him, pointing a finger at his chest accusingly, "She just saved your ass back there, and now you're _criticizing_ her?"

Again, that odd new desire to remedy the offence he'd caused controlled his actions, "I imagine I appear ungrateful.  If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth."

"Could've fooled me."

"I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt," he said, letting out a sigh and pulling a pouch of coin from his belt, holding it out for her to take.  "Here is all the coin I have--as Anso promised.  Should you find yourself in need of assistance, I would gladly render it."

"Should I be worried about my companions in your presence?" she asked, casting him a side-long glance as she stepped up and cautiously took the pouch from his outstretched hand.  He was careful to drop it into her palm to avoid her touch.

"I will watch them carefully, if we travel together.  I can promise no more."

She introduced herself and her companions, then.  Hawke's first name was Daedra, though most knew her by her surname; the mage was her younger sister, Bethany; the dwarf, Varric; and the other rogue woman was Isabela, a pirate unfortunately stranded in Kirkwall by the destruction of her ship and the loss of her crew.  

They spoke more, and Hawke's anger abated, if only slightly.  In fact, if he wasn't mistaken, she had ended up flirting with him, though the look on her face when the words left her mouth was as if she couldn't believe she'd just said them aloud.  The way her companions looked at her suggested they were thinking along much the same lines.  Her sister was boring a hole into the back of her skull with the intensity of her stare, and he could only respond with an awkward chuckle.  That this woman spoke what was immediately on her mind--sometimes without thought--was abundantly clear to him and despite himself, he could appreciate that honest nature.

Before he knew it, he found himself agreeing to help her with an expedition she was planning and voluntarily signing away his free time for Maker knew how long, and as they parted ways, he wondered how she'd managed to convince him to do so.

It was clear that he would be seeing Daedra Hawke again soon, and oddly, he wasn't put off by the idea.  She was an unlikely leader.  That much was certain, with her easy humour and crooked smile, and the way her levity swiftly descended into cold protective fury in the face of her sister being threatened or insulted.

And yet people were drawn to her, and followed her.  She didn't command attention because she wanted it.  In fact, it seemed as if she generally shied away from the spotlight altogether.  She wasn't a leader because it was what she strived to be.  Rather, she was a leader because she just...  _was._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite Daedra's blatantly obvious attraction to Fenris when they first met, I always thought his attraction to her was very gradual, and that he was initially drawn to Hawke out of a sense of duty and curiosity long before his intentions became at all romantic. Writing this scene was my attempt to draw on that.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Hawke deals with the aftermath of the Deep Roads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for character death and subsequent grief.

**Moving On**

He began to miss her shadow darkening his doorway.

He'd become accustomed to her barging into his borrowed mansion nearly every night, coaxing him into talking about himself without even really asking.  It seemed odd not to hear her quiet footsteps approaching the stairs and her soft knocks on the doorframe to his study, and he kept expecting to hear them.  She hadn't come to see him at all since the Deep Roads.  Not that she went to see anyone, really.

He eventually received word that she and her mother had finally secured their ancestral estate, but he still never saw her, and when he finally asked the others, they said they hadn't seen much of her either.

Sometimes, in the stillness of night, through the ruined ceilings of his former master's crumbling mansion, he could swear he almost heard her.  Cries of overwhelming grief and sorrow sweeping through the walls of Hightown like a despondent melody, turning saddened eyes and ears toward the young Hawke's upper estate window.

And thus, she'd become the woman who'd gained everything she could have ever wanted, but lost the one thing she truly  _valued_  in the process.  Her baby sister.  The ray of Sunshine (as Varric so aptly nicknamed her) whose optimism was brought on not by a keen ability to lighten the mood with humour, as it was with her older sister, but by a natural ability to see the good in people, and whose kind heart opened to anyone receptive enough to it.  She'd even won Fenris over, in the end, and he held nothing but the utmost respect for her, a  _mage_  of all things.

If there was anyone who never deserved to go in such a horrific way, it was Bethany Hawke, but he'd seen enough in Tevinter to know that fate was never kind to those who deserved it most.

Hawke had begun to learn that sad truth during her year in the Red Iron, she said.  But, he had a feeling she knew it now, better than ever before.

She blamed herself, though she never said as much, and if she had, it hadn't been to him.  But he knew her far better than he let on.  It was her decision to bring her sister into the Deep Roads, and though no one had any idea what was to happen, he could see the guilt in Hawke's eyes as she hovered over her sister's dying body clear as day.  No one would convince her otherwise, he knew.  She would allow no one else to shoulder the burden of her sister's death.  She would accept it regardless of what others would tell her, and she would move on, because that's just what Hawke did.  She left nothing up in the air.  She would grieve, she would carry the weight of penitence until she died and then she would lay it at Bethany's feet herself, dropping to her knees and begging for her sister's forgiveness in the Fade.

"You know, if you make that sword any sharper, there won't be any blade left to sharpen."

The whetstone halted in his hands, and he tilted his head back over his shoulder without seeing her.  He knew she was there, though.  Her soft, steady breaths and the scent of her leather armour alerted him to her presence, albeit far later than usual, thanks to his deep thoughts.  He had learned to keep his ears open for any sign of slavers or hunters in the years since his escape from Danarius, but when it came to Hawke, he found his mind wandered more than was considered safe. 

"Hawke."

He heard her soft booted footfalls approaching his chair by the fireplace, stopping just short, "Hello, Fenris."  Her leathers creaked, and he turned to see her folding her arms across her chest.  Her eyes were bright and lively, her colour completely natural, and she looked to anyone sparing her a glance as if she was finally ready to get back to her adventures.

He wasn't convinced.

He gestured to the other chair across from him as he stood and set his sword over against the wall, "Have a seat."

She simply shook her head and set to pacing about the room like the first time she'd visited him, studying the things he kept around--things he couldn't be bothered to burn.  She stopped along a row of books set on the mantle--the only things he couldn't  _bring_  himself to burn--her hand thoughtfully placed against her chin, her eyes scouring the fine cursive lettering spreading down the spines of each.

He watched her for a moment as she pulled one of them from the shelf and opened it to somewhere in the middle, her brows furrowing in consternation as she read the words of one such book, obviously displeased at the contents (he decided it must have been one of Danarius' books containing blood rituals—and that he would burn  _that_  book the first chance he got).  Then, she put it back on the shelf and moved on to another one.  This one, she seemed much happier with.  She pulled back the cover, smiled fondly at it for a moment, before closing it again and holding it up for him to see.  "Have you read this one?"

He shook his head, opting for silence, rather than spilling his secret.

" _The Adventures of the Black Fox_ , by Gaston Gerrault.  It was my father's favourite," she explained, smiling to herself.  "He always liked the thought of taking from the rich and giving to the poor."  She chuckled lightly, "And he loved to stir up trouble."

"Sounds familiar."

Her eyebrows rose, and she held a hand over her heart, "Why, whatever do you mean, Fenris?"

He simply shook his head, a smirk tugging his mouth to the side.

Silence fell for a moment, before she took a breath and looked down at the cover again, "Do you... mind if I borrow it?  We had to leave all our books behind when we fled Lothering.  I never got the chance to read it.  Father used to tell me stories about the Black Fox when I was a girl, but until he died, I couldn't be bothered to pick up a book, much less read one."

"Not at all," he responded simply.  "Keep it if you wish."

"Oh no, I couldn't do that.  What if you wanted to read it sometime?" 

He froze, torn between telling her of his inability to read, or coming up with another aversion tactic.  Thankfully, he didn't need to choose, as she answered with, "I'll bring it back when I'm done, all right?"

He simply nodded, and things fell silent again.  She stared down at the book's cover for a moment, deep in thought, before coming back to herself with a shake of her head.  She stepped around the room again, trying to occupy her thoughts but when he saw her arms close around herself, he knew she wasn't having much luck.  Not that he had any idea how to help her, however.  But she was stronger than that.  Hawke could move on without his help, or anyone else's.  She was already well on her way.

He watched as she approached his sword in its scabbard propped up against the wall, and she stared at it for a moment, before turning to face him with a forced smile, "Spar with me?"

Fenris stared at her, slightly taken aback, "I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, elf," she said, lightening her words with a good-natured spark in her eye, "Spar with me."

"Are you... certain that is what you wish?"

Her eyebrow raised up her forehead nearly to her hairline, "What?  Think the charming rogue can't hold her own against the brooding elven warrior?"

"That is not what I meant."

She didn't reply.  Instead, her gaze fell for a moment before she looked back up and said, "The last time I had a friendly sparring session with someone who used a sword as big as yours was against Carver... and, I don't know, I guess I just need the familiarity."  Her mouth pulled briefly to the left in a rueful smile before the mirth returned to her eyes and she added, "Besides, I could use the practice, and how often do you get the chance to practice with a rogue of such calibre as myself?"

Lifting her hand in front of her face, she planted the other on her hip and made a show of casually examining her fingernails.

He answered her with a smirk, "Your modesty truly knows no bounds, Hawke."

She nodded, "That's me; humbly renouncing my many talents with a coy smile and a rosy blush.  Now, are you going to spar with me, or not?"

He allowed a light chuckle to escape as he approached his sword and grabbed it from its position against the far wall, "If that is what you wish, then yes.  I will spar with you."

* * *

They rounded each other in the atrium of Fenris' mansion, weapons at the ready.  They were only five minutes in, and Hawke was already regretting her decision to ask Fenris to spar.  He was making her sparring sessions with Carver seem like a casual stroll through Lothering.  Not to mention that fierce, battle-hardened stare he kept giving her was so  _damn_  distracting.

 _Focus!  I just have to get past his defense,_  she thought, strategizing to herself,  _but that's the problem!  Where does he get such speed, swinging around a sword that huge?  Carver was never this fast!_

He blocked yet another of her backstabbing attempts before leaping backwards to give his sword enough room to swing in a wide horizontal arc.  She flipped nimbly out of range.  Before she had a chance to gather her bearings again, however, he was already on top of her, slamming the broad side of his sword into her chest, knocking her flat on her back, and she felt the air vacate her lungs with an audible  _whoosh_.

He flashed her a smile as she coughed and caught her breath, glaring up at him from the floor.

"What was that you were saying about your 'calibre'?" he asked, outstretching a gauntleted hand to help her to her feet, a smug grin tugging at his mouth.  She took his hand, grumbling something about  _damned warrior elves_  and  _too much bloody agility_ , before brushing off her leathers and tossing him a confident wink as she adjusted her stance.

"Oh, I'm just getting started, elf."

He matched her determination with his own, his mouth pulling into a bemused grin, "I would have it no other way,  _woman_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While searching for books to fill the shelves of her new estate's library, Hawke comes upon one that makes her think of Fenris.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For CreatedInFyre7 over on FFnet, who suggested a scene about Hawke teaching Fenris to read ages ago, before this story went on hiatus. When I was moving the story over here, I discovered that I have a distinct lack of Act II vignettes, so I was thinking about which scenes to write when I stumbled across CIF's review. I wasn't taking prompts at the time because my head was already overflowing with ideas but the suggestion came in handy the other day. 
> 
> Dunno if they're still around, but thanks to them for the prompt. :)
> 
> Please note that this takes place earlier than it does in-game, approximately a year after the Expedition.

**Lessons**

Hawke had not been expecting to find anything worthwhile among Hubert's wares—certainly not at the ridiculous prices he insisted on selling them for—but she was on a hunt for books to fill the desperately lacking shelves of her Hightown estate library, which had previously held a sparse collection of historical volumes that had fallen into disrepair over the years before her family had reclaimed the home.  Now that the estate was theirs again, she was trying to refill the shelves with any manner of book she could find that was _not_ falling apart at the seams.

Back in Lothering, her father had boasted an extensive collection; everything from spellbooks, to history books, to original fiction, poetry and even the Chant.  Hawke herself, however, was always too caught up with the outside world to be bothered to pick one up.  When her father was still alive, she had made a mental promise to one day try and understand his love for the written word, but unfortunately, he had died before that promise had ever come to fruition.

She had originally approached Hubert for an update on the state of the Bone Pit, and the merchant had drawled on about his employees, but she had stopped listening, her interest piqued by an instructional volume about poison-making and ingredients that certainly would not go to waste in her possession.  The other books were less educational.  Among them: _The Adventures of the Black Fox_ , which reminded her that she still needed to return Fenris' copy to him; as well as _A Slave's Life_ , an autobiographical account of Shartan.

 _Well, now I have two reasons to pay Fenris a visit,_ she thought with a smile.  She couldn't exactly say she was put-off by the idea, and she still wanted to thank him for traipsing through the Deep Roads with her and helping her move on after her sister's death.  It may not have seemed like much to him, but that evening spent sparring with him had helped her get back to work and ease herself back into her training, even if the state of affairs in Kirkwall had been relatively uneventful since her return from the Expedition.  Truth be told, it was starting to get a little boring, and her mother's increasingly obsessive attempts to integrate her into polite society were beginning to grate on her.  Hawke had never been cut out for nobility.

Forcing out a sigh, she shook her head.  _Maker, I need a hobby before I start hunting down gang members as a way to escape formal functions or to just pass the time._

"This isn't a library, Messere."  The shopkeep's voice broke her out of her thoughts, "Buy the books or put them back for my other customers."

"Right."  She lifted her gaze to the man, "Sorry, Hubert.  How much?"

She spent far too long bartering with the man--he was stubborn as a bull when it came to his prices, and she still felt like she overpaid in the end, but she had better places to be and didn't have the patience to argue any longer than she already had. 

As she walked back from the market, she stopped quickly into her estate to drop off the instructional tome and exchange her new copy of _The Black Fox_ for Fenris', placing both books into a basket before leaving again and heading directly for the ruined mansion that served as his home.  Knocking briefly on the door, she waited a moment before finally stepping inside.

He was in his usual study at the top of the stairs, stoking the fire when she entered.

"I thought I recognized your knock, Hawke," he said, looking back at her over his shoulder, "I have to say, I'm surprised to see you."

"Did you miss me?" she asked with a wink.  "I know I haven't been visiting as much as I used to.  My mother's been keeping me very busy in her attempts to make me a respectable noble."

"Is it working?"

She smirked, "What do you think?"

"I think I'd be wise not to answer that question."  He sat in an armchair in front of the fire and gestured to the one set opposite him, but rather than move to sit in it, she stepped up to him.

"I have something for you, actually."

"For me?" he repeated, returning to his feet as his eyebrows lifted.

She pulled out the two books and handed him the one he already owned first, "Your copy of _The Black Fox_.  I can see why my father liked it so much.  You should read it when you get the chance."

He took the book in silence, his eyes falling away.

" _This,_ however, is a gift," she added, handing him _A Slave's Life_ as well.  "I saw it with the others and thought you might enjoy it.  Consider it a thank you for coming with me into the Deep Roads, and for… everything that came after.  It can't begin to compare to your help, but… it's a start, I hope."

He took it from her, his brow furrowed in confusion, "It… it's a book."

"Yes."  She nodded, her lips canting upwards in a smirk, "Keen eyesight you have there, Fenris.  It's by Shartan, the elf who helped Andraste free the slaves.  You know about him, right?"

"A little.  It's just…" he trailed off, looking away from her, uneasy.  Had she made a mistake?

He turned back to face her, sighing heavily, and she could see shame clouding his eyes, "Slaves… are not permitted to read.  I've… never learned."

The memory of her actions the day she borrowed _The Black Fox_ came rushing back to her.  While he said he hadn't read it, he had never said why and he had told her to _keep_ it.  She had just thought he was being generous, but he had told her to do so because it was useless to him.  What a _fool_ she was!

For a moment, she didn't know what to say before her hands lifted to her forehead she shook her head, " _Maker_ , Fenris, I just assumed…" pulling her hands away, she made eye-contact with him, "I'm so sorry if I offended you."

"You didn't," he said, hesitantly.  "I don't mean to appear ungrateful.  I do appreciate the thought."

Hawke looked down at the book in his hands for a moment before lifting her eyes back up to him.  "You know, it's not too late to learn," she said, stepping forward and placing her hand on the cover in an attempt to reassure him—the closest to physical contact she could manage without actually touching him.

"Isn't it?" he asked, staring down at her hand for a moment before looking back up at her with a thoughtful tilt of his lips, "Sometimes, I wonder."

"I've never considered myself much of a teacher, but I'll do what I can to help you if you like.  And hey, it'll give me something to do, too," she added brightly, lifting one shoulder in a shrug, "Kirkwall is boring these days."

He shook his head at her, "Only you would consider Kirkwall _boring_ , Hawke."

"So?"  She smiled at him, removing her hand from the book and looking at him expectantly, "What do you say?"

He eyed her in thought for a moment, before returning his gaze to the book's cover, studying it carefully.  "I've always wanted to learn more of Shartan," he mused.  "Perhaps this is my chance."

She couldn't explain the joy that she felt at his answer.  Warmth spread through her all of a sudden at the notion that he was willing to trust her with this insecurity of his, so her grin widened, "Perfect!"  Stepping across the room, she made her way over to a cluttered desk against the far wall, searching.  "We'll need a quill, inkwell… and lots of parchment."

"I'm… sorry?" he asked, and she heard his bare feet approaching her from behind, "You… want to begin tonight?"

"No time like the present!" Hawke replied, whirling to face him purposefully before leaning closer and pitching her voice low as if shying away from listening ears, "Besides, Seneschal Bran has a party coming up next month, and Mother hasn't asked me to go yet.  The less time I spend at home, the less opportunity she has to ask."

Smirking, he shook his head warmly at her, "You are incorrigible, Hawke."

"Keeps Mother on her toes," she agreed, her grin slanting to the side.  "So, do you have plans tonight or shall we have our first lesson?"

"As it happens, I am free."

Turning back to the desk, she cleared a space for the aforementioned supplies and dragged over a chair, motioning for him to sit.  "Good! Let's start with the alphabet, then, shall we?"

* * *

Two hours later, papers were strewn about all over the floor with Hawke's decisive letters scribbled onto them, followed by the unsure penmanship of Fenris' own hand.  They had started distinguishing between vowels, consonants, and their respective sounds by the time Hawke decided it was enough for one night.

Now, they were sitting in the pair of armchairs in front of the fire.  Well, _Fenris_ was sitting.  Hawke was laying sideways in the chair, leaning against one arm with her legs thrown lazily over the other, her boots removed and abandoned on the floor.  He had retrieved a bottle of wine from the cellar, and her third glass was dangling loosely from her fingers as they chatted aimlessly.  Their conversation was light and friendly, embellished by occasional bouts of laughter, tongues loosened by the alcohol as they rekindled the old companionship they once shared before the Expedition and the complications in Hawke's life afterwards that had brought unforeseen distance between them.

It was nice to see her again, Fenris had to admit.  They had lived so close to one another, but he had seen little of her in the past few months since she'd come over that day after Bethany's death.  He had been passing the time by training with Aveline and taking easy mercenary work on the side, mostly just acting as a bodyguard for nobility of low stature.  Low-risk jobs intended to pay for food and other necessities.  He thought about leaving Kirkwall, as his debt to Hawke been paid by attending the Expedition, but he wasn't sure where to go, and if slavers had tracked him down here, at least there were people around he could trust.  By now, he at least knew that Hawke, Varric, and Aveline would be there to have his back if Danarius came poking around at last.

But that wasn't all that was keeping him in the city.  He'd be lying if he said he wasn't drawn to Hawke by a curiosity he couldn't explain.

She was unlike any woman he had ever met.  Although she wasn't the first woman (or man, for that matter) to make her attraction to him known from the start, she looked at him, respected him, as a man rather than as some exotic conquest, and her flirtatious comments seemed to be little more than an attempt to establish playful banter and ease tension.  He'd since witnessed her make similar comments to others in her entourage, although as far as Fenris knew, he'd been the only one with whom she'd discussed any real interest.  But Hawke had always seemed more concerned about prioritizing a true friendship with him before anything else.  Although he had never voiced his aversion to touch, she had picked up on it and was always careful about giving him space, and he had not missed her attempts to emphasize his status as a free man by always giving him a choice.  He had to appreciate that about her, but he couldn't help wondering if she would continue to think of him so favourably if she knew the truth about what he was capable of—the truth about the Fog Warriors.

He shook those memories out of his head before they began to take hold.

Either way, it was immensely satisfying to see Hawke's brutally unforgiving policy when it came to slavers.  Indeed, the way she manoeuvred a battlefield in general was a fascinating sight, if he was honest.

 _She_ was a fascinating sight.

Their conversation had fallen into companionable silence, and he glanced over at her.  Her eyes were closed, and there was a soft smile playing at her lips.  She almost looked like she was sleeping, if not for the rhythm of her breath and the steady movement of her fingers tracing the lip of the wineglass she'd set on the floor.

Had she always worn that reddish powder on her eyes, and he was only just noticing now that her eyes were closed?  The colour was almost the same as her hair, spilling over her shoulder and the arm of the chair and hanging loosely above the floor.  It had long since fallen free of the low ponytail she habitually wore, but she didn't seem to care.  He studied her profile, the way the firelight played on her features; the steep slope of her nose, the soft jut of a cheekbone, the gentle curve of her jaw, and he thought not for the first time that she was beautiful.

"Hawke," he said, and she stirred at his voice, taking a deep breath through her nose as she ran her hand through her hair and her emerald eyes fluttered open.

"Sorry, Fenris," she muttered, shaking her head, gesturing to the bottle set on the bench a few feet away.  "S'the wine.  Makes me tired."

He breathed a soft laugh at the slight slur of her speech, "Wine will do that."

"Mm.  S'why I don't drink it at parties."  She sat up, twisting her spine until it made an audible crack, before bending to retrieve her boots, "I should go.  It's getting late."

He was silent for a moment, listening to her movements as she prepared to leave for the night, before he finally spoke again: "Thank you."

She paused in the action of lacing up her boots, shifting her eyes back up at him.  "For what?"

"The book.  And the lesson."

"The book was a gift to thank you for your help with the Expedition," she explained, pushing herself to her feet and grabbing the basket she'd brought with her from where she'd abandoned it near the desk, "And as for the lesson?  Well, let's just say we're even since it gives me something to do.  Thank _you_ for the company."

He gave her a nod, "Anytime."

"Same time tomorrow, then?"

"I look forward to it."

"Good.  Goodnight, Fenris."  She turned away and started out of the room, "And keep practicing those letters!"

He eyed the mess of parchment scattered over the floor, and felt himself smile, "Goodnight, Hawke."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke hasn't seen or heard from Fenris at all since he finished off Hadriana and left her party alone. That is, until she finds him in her foyer a full day later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bakaprincess85 on FFnet, who requested the bittersweet romance scene from the game way back in 2011. 
> 
> This is the closest thing I’ve ever written to smut, but while this chapter doesn’t quite bridge the gap into mature territory in my opinion, it comes awfully close. So just to be safe I’ve bumped the rating up to M and would classify this chapter as NSFW.

**Choice  
** Part One

When Fenris left their party after killing Hadriana, Hawke searched for him everywhere.

She wandered the winding paths of the coast on the way back as Varric and Anders continued on ahead, checked at the docks despite Fenris' distinct revulsion when it came to the smell of fish, stopped into the Hanged Man, where Varric had retired for drinks and was chatting aimlessly with Isabela.  She even checked in the Undercity on the off-chance that she might stumble upon him in a place she would normally never have expected to find him in the hope of at least seeing him, if not speaking with him.

When he wasn't at his mansion late in the evening, she began to be plagued by the thought that perhaps he might not return.  What had happened with Hadriana and the sudden news of a sister he didn't know he had had stoked his anxiety into a raging inferno and she only wanted to make sure he was all right.

Logic told her they'd known each other long enough that he would not leave for good without at least saying goodbye—at least, not of his own free will.  But while killing Hadriana was a victory, her presence in Kirkwall meant slavers were still about.  Hawke worried that he might end up captured again, and she wouldn't be able to help him because she would never know.  That was the thought that frightened her the most.  The possibility of losing him was something that made a spike of panic bolt through her whenever she dwelled on it.

Hawke's experiences in Kirkwall had provided her with many friends, but she could talk with none of them the way she could talk with Fenris.  Aveline was like her sister, but she had so much work to do and responsibility at any given moment that Hawke felt guilty derailing the guardswoman's attention with her problems unless it was absolutely necessary.  Varric and Isabela were great for a laugh but typically shied away from more serious conversation.  Anders was often too absorbed in his manifesto to pay any attention to her when he wasn't busy with his clinic, which was fine; the work he was doing was important, even if she wished he would take a break now and then.

But when she needed someone to drink with who wouldn't force her to laugh when she didn't feel like laughing, or to listen in silence while she blathered on about the Arishok or blood mages, or nobility, or whatever stupid problem the Viscount wanted her to solve, she went to Fenris and they would start another reading lesson.  Teaching him would distract her for a few hours until they decided to finish up for the night, and the evening would end with the two of them lounging in his study, talking over wine, as per the routine they had developed.  Sometimes the wine would prompt some flirtation, and she'd be lying if she said she hadn't expressed any interest in him even while sober—her attraction to him was clear from the moment they met.  They had spoken about his very limited past experience in the ways of romance and he had expressed an interest… but he had also been drunk, and she was by no means willing to prompt that any further while he was anything less than sober.  But even if nothing changed, even if his interest never progressed further than some innocent drunken flirting, Hawke valued her friendship with Fenris deeply, and the thought of him suddenly not being in her life anymore filled her with such a sense of dread that she found it difficult to breathe.

Which was why, when she found him sitting on a bench in the foyer of her estate after a full twenty-four hours without hearing from him, she spoke his name with an immense sigh of relief: "Fenris."

A moment passed in which he didn't look at her, but he soon looked up, standing to face her as she made her way over to him.

"I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," he said.  "I took out my anger on you, and what I said was undeserved and uncalled-for.  I was… not myself.  I'm sorry."

Hawke shook her head, "Maker, Fenris, you had me worried.  I'm just glad you're all right."

"I needed to be alone." He turned to pace the room for a moment.  "When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment.  She would ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep.  Because of her status, I was powerless to respond," he explained, whirling to face her with a scowl, "and she knew it.  The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now… I couldn't let her go.  I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"Well, it's not like she didn't have it coming," Hawke said, trying to reassure him.  "As far as I'm concerned, promises only matter when the other party hasn't made your life miserable or used your family to manipulate you."

"This hate…" he grumbled, looking away from her with a scowl, his jaw bunching angrily as his hands fisted at his sides, "It's a sickness, a dark growth that I cannot seem to rid myself of.  I thought I'd gotten away from it, but to feel it again, to know it was they who planted it inside me… it was too much to bear."

"Fenris…" she began, but trailed off.  She wanted to tell him not to worry about it, that his hate was understandable, and his broken promise to the woman who made his life a living nightmare was not something he needed to hold himself accountable for.  The horrid woman had deserved no less than a heart crushed in the palm of a man she had treated like an animal, and she had held the knowledge of his sister over his head in a last ditch attempt to manipulate him further and save her own ass.  Hawke was immensely glad she was dead.  But she couldn't fault Fenris for striving for better; to _be_ better.  He was a good man, and she could see that his actions weighed on him.

"I should go," he said, turning away again and moving towards the door.  "I didn't come here to burden you further."

"Wait," she said, moving to catch him, "I'll get some wine, and we'll talk." He had been there to listen to her blather on incessantly about her problems.  The least she could do was afford him a listening ear to vent about his very real concerns, and before she could think about her actions, she was reaching for him, her hand coming to rest on the skin of his forearm, "You don't have to leave."

Immediately realizing her mistake, she moved to yank her hand away, but he had already rounded on her.  His markings flaring brightly, his hands gripping her biceps like a vice, he shoved her back into the wall and her head hit the stone with an audible smack.  The claws of his gauntlets were digging into her arms, and there was a danger in his eyes like she had provoked a cornered predator.  Those few seconds were all it took for the air between them to change from the easy camaraderie they'd grown accustomed to over the years to something… _very different_.  Something deeper.  Something charged, and dangerously intoxicating.  He'd had such an aversion to touch that she'd been careful not to get too close over the years, but this was the closest she had ever been to him, his face mere inches from her own, his mouth drawn down into a sneer, and his green eyes laced with a ferocity that was as sexy as it was terrifying.

Distantly, she flashed back to the day they first met, the way he had shoved his hand into the chest of a slaver who had touched him out of turn as well as what he'd told her of his experiences with the Fog Warriors in Seheron, and she realized that this man could very well kill her.  But despite it all, the years they had spent getting to know each other had established her trust in him in such a way that was not so easily shaken.  Perhaps that was reckless, but Hawke could not find it within herself to care at the moment.

Feeling herself begin to tremble, her head throbbing dully, she let out a shaky breath, and could almost watch the transition as he came back to himself.  She could see the realization dawn on him that this was _Hawke_ , that she was not a threat to him and that he had just spent this entire conversation _apologizing_ for taking his anger out on her.  His markings faded, and his eyes warmed before she could see the shame, the guilt for having reacted to her touch in such a way that he had advanced on her with the (albeit brief) instinct to kill.

His grip on her loosened and he started to pull away, but she had a feeling that if she allowed him to do so, he would never allow himself to get this close again.  She trusted him, _still_ trusted him, and whether that was smart or not, she was unwilling to let the friendship they had worked so hard to develop wither by letting him push her away out of a fear of hurting her.

So she kissed him.

His head jerked away from her, his eyes wide with surprise, but he didn't let her go.  She met his gaze, and they were silent for a moment, her heart beating so hard she was sure he could hear it as she held her breath, waiting for his response, whatever it may be.

After a few moments, he didn't move, but he didn't release her either, and his eyes—although surprised—showed no signs of anger.  So she slowly inched forward again, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth tentatively, questioningly, giving him the option to leave if he so desired.  She was delighted to feel him turn to kiss her back, the hands on her arms tightening in response, but still gentle.

When she pulled away this time, his eyes were full of heated intent.  It sent a shiver down her spine, and she bit her lip for a moment before leaning into him a third time, and then he met her halfway, claiming her lips with his own, deep and demanding, breathing in sharply through his nose.  Her tongue traced the edge of his lip, exploring the depths of his mouth as it opened to allow her entrance.  Letting go of her arms to settle his hands around her waist, he pulled her tight to him, but she was still wary of where her hands were, so she reversed their positions so he was the one against the wall, settling them on either side of his head instead.

 _Maker,_ it was like she'd been set on fire, his hands roaming over her back as she lost herself in their feverish kisses, breaking away for breath before moving along the length of his jaw, nipping the skin there lightly with her teeth.  When she moved her mouth to the shell of his pointed ear his response was to grip her backside tightly and grind his hips into hers.  The movement elicited a gasp from her, and she exhaled hotly against his ear.

"Hawke," he groaned, his voiced strained, capturing her lips again as one hand moved to the back of her head, the claws of his gauntlets tangling in her hair.

Taking a moment to catch their breaths, Hawke rested her forehead against his, closing her eyes to savour the closeness, his scent, his breath on her lips.  The intensity and speed with which this had escalated distantly occurred to her, surprising her, and under normal circumstances it would have frightened her.  But logical thought had promptly vacated the premesis and she found herself focusing only on the moment, and the sensations of his body against hers.

"Shall we move this upstairs?" she breathed, kissing him once, deeply, before pulling away and searching his eyes for any hint of disapproval, finding only heat and lust.  So she took one step towards the stairs and reached out a hand for him.  The invite had been posed, and whether they continued was entirely up to him.

He looked down at her hand for a moment, and when he looked back up there was affection in his eyes, mingling with the fire and the desire in an expression that made her knees weak.  When he reached out and intertwined his fingers with hers, she felt herself smile as she started to move backwards up the stairs with the elf following behind her.  Their gazes grew sharper with every step, and he pulled her forward to kiss her again halfway up.

That was, of course, until her heel caught on the top step and she was saved from an embarrassing, graceless fall by Fenris' arms wrapped around her.  She didn't think it was possible to flush any more than she already was, but felt heat flare into her cheeks just the same.  So the last thing they did before stumbling into Hawke's bedroom and closing the door behind them, was laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one hurt to write. Blame BioWare.

**Choice  
** Part Two

The warmth of Hawke’s body in his arms did little to soothe the ice cold feeling of despair that sluiced through Fenris’ veins as he held her in her bed that night.  He shook his head, wide awake as she dozed against him, her breath soft on his chest.

She had known something was different as soon as her breathing calmed, but he had quieted her by pulling her close before she could even open her mouth to ask.  She'd taken the hint and succumbed to sleep quickly, and he let out a sigh of relief because he had no idea how to voice what exactly had happened.  He wasn’t even certain _he_ knew.

How could he tell her that the night they had shared, the emotions he’d felt beyond the obvious pleasure, had been the catalyst to crack open the door to that dark hole in his memory?  An explosion of sights, sounds, smells, words—his own _name—_ it was all there before him to discover!  But before he had even realized what was happening, the door that had opened in his mind’s eye snapped shut again, and it was all gone as quick as it appeared, leaving a dreadful sense of emptiness in its wake.  Everything he had seen—everything he _was—_ had slipped away as sure as if it had been an ill-remembered dream.

But this was no dream, and he almost wished it had been, so he could pass it off as some horrible nightmare that had started off so achingly pleasant before taking such a cold turn.  At least then he wouldn’t have involved Hawke so thoroughly in his problems, giving her a partial responsibility for his distress that she had not asked for and neither of them had foreseen.

His free hand tightly gripped his forehead, his thumb and index finger digging into his temples as his eyes shut in another desperate attempt to reopen that door in his mind, silently pleading for the memories to return.  Frustrated at his utter lack of success, he ran the hand through his hair, his body tensing as the only emotion he could find to rely on was anger.

When he felt his other hand tighten around Hawke’s arm, he was reminded of her presence, and his face contorted in shame as he looked down at her.  It was not her fault, he knew.  She had made him feel truly happy for the first time in his sad scraps of memory, and he could not hold what had happened afterwards against her.  But his fury had not receded, and he did not wish to hurt her, so he gingerly extricated himself from her arms and rose from the bed.  The movement caused her to stir, but she did not wake, burrowing further into her pillow and pulling her knees up towards her chest, hugging the coverlet to her chin.

He couldn’t be what she needed, he realized as he looked down at her, studied the peaceful look on her face during sleep that contrasted with the stressed furrow in her brow when she was awake.  She had vented her worries to him more than enough times for him to know she was far from the calm, confident leader everyone expected her to be.  Hawke had the entire citystate of Kirkwall calling on her every day.  The Arishok, the Viscount, the nobility—all were making demands on her, relying on her to solve their problems, and she needed someone who could be there to offer her everything she deserved, someone to give her every bit of their being.  But Fenris did not have every part of himself to give.  He was a broken man, his past—whatever he was before he was this… _animal_ —would remain in darkness, unable to be discovered.  What did he have to offer her?  He was an escaped slave still trying to understand what it meant to be free, still chained to his master by everything from the constant threat of wolves at his heels to that _damned mansion_ he chose to reside in.  He had no home, no past; he had nothing.  He _was_ nothing.

His shoulders fell with a dejected sigh.

Satisfied that she was still asleep, he moved to gather his clothes, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave her without some sort of explanation.  That, at least, he could give her.  So he dressed and leaned helplessly against the mantle above the fireplace, waiting for her to wake and trying to think of what to tell her when she did.

He wasn’t sure how much time passed; only that it felt like an eternity and it still wasn’t long enough to come up with something even slightly acceptable to explain why he was running away from her.  But she inevitably woke and when he heard the shuffle of her body beneath the bedcovers as she turned to realize he wasn’t beside her, his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

“Fenris?” she asked, her voice rough with sleep as he felt her eyes on his back.  “Was it that bad?”

“I’m sorry… It’s not…” he stammered, closing his eyes to bolster himself for a moment before he forced himself to face her.  “It was fine.”

The look of hurt that crossed her features as she broke eye contact with him reminded him of what exactly he’d said, and he shook his head.  Despite his crippling anguish, what had happened was not her fault, and he would not leave her with anything less than the truth.

“No, that is insufficient.”  It took all that was within him to meet her eyes, and her gaze searched him.  He felt lain bare before her and he couldn’t have hidden it if he’d tried.  “It was better than anything I could’ve dreamed.”

The half-hearted smirk he’d come to recognize as her method of escaping what she knew was to be a tense situation took hold of her mouth, and it almost physically hurt him to see it, to know he was the one who put it there.  “Oh, I can think of even better things in my dreams, trust me.”

He wanted to indulge her need for levity— _oh_ how he wished he could—but the most he could muster was a slight twitch of his lips before he looked away.

She sensed the degree of his discomfort then, pulling the sheet around her body and sliding her feet to the floor as she sat up.  “Your markings,” she said, the playful tone gone from her voice.  “They hurt, don’t they?”

“It’s not that,” he said, and that, at least, was the truth.  He’d thought the memory of the agony he’d felt during the ritual that had given him the markings had tainted any sort of pleasure he might feel as a result of physical touch, and indeed, the lyrium was sensitive.  But the electricity that had flowed through him at the feeling of Hawke’s hands on him—so careful and respectful—was far from unpleasant.

He realized she was still waiting for an answer, so he turned back to face her again, vainly attempting to convey to her the intensity of his grief with whatever words his broken, empty mind could find.  None of them seemed sufficient.  “I began to remember… my life before.  Just… flashes.  It’s too much—this is too fast.  I—I cannot… do this.”

Hawke shook her head, confused, and he cursed his inability to explain his anguish in a way she could rightly understand.  “You mean… before the ritual?” she asked.  “What did you see?”

“There were faces… words…”  He raked a hand through his hair, his eyes shutting tight in one last fruitless attempt to recall even the smallest scrap of what he’d seen.  “For just a moment I could recall _all_ of it… and then it slipped away.”

“But I don’t understand.  Don’t you want to get your memories back?”

“Perhaps you don’t realize how upsetting this is.”  He turned from her again, taking a couple steps across the room and staring down at the lush red carpet, one hand fisting at his side.  “I’ve never remembered anything, and to have it all come back in a rush, only to _lose_ it!  I can’t…”  He twisted back to look at her, and her eyes widened at the misery she must have seen in his face.  “I can’t.”

Hawke pushed herself to her feet, stepping closer to him with the sheet wrapped around her.  The urgency in her eyes, the tears that flooded them almost broke him and he squared his shoulders as she approached.  “Fenris, we talk about everything.  We can work through this.  Please, just tell me how I can help.”

“I’m sorry.”  His shoulders fell, and he couldn’t bear to see the tears in her eyes; to hear the way her voice shook, so he broke his gaze from her, looking off to the side.  How could she help him, when he didn't even know how to help himself?  “I feel like such a fool.”

“Fenris…” she began, but trailed off, her head shaking as she bit her lip.  He saw her reach for him in his peripherals, but before her hand could make contact, she pulled it away again, her own shoulders sinking with emotion.

“All I wanted was to be happy… just for a little while.”  He couldn’t even fully look at her, damn him; couldn’t bring himself to see the pain he’d caused her, and before he had a chance to convince himself to stay, he turned and left her standing alone, a broken plea for forgiveness leaving his lips before he closed the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While trying to remain focused on the pressing matter brought forward by the Viscount, Hawke struggles with the emotional aftermath of Fenris' departure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a bit with Hawke's conflicting emotions here, and in the next chapter, while still trying to be sensitive to Fenris' distress. Hope it comes across as believable.

**Forward  
** Part One

“What am I doing here?” Hawke whispered to herself, leaning her forehead against the door as her shoulders sank with a sigh.

It had been two weeks since the night Fenris had walked out on her.  She had seen nothing of him in the meantime.  Truth be told, she’d been avoiding him because she was so angry with him that she wasn’t sure what she’d do if she saw him.  It hadn’t been difficult; he didn’t exactly make an effort to seek her out, and the others had seen little of him as well.  What had happened with his memories had been awful for him, she knew, and she wanted to help him, but he had fled the room without even giving her a chance to try.  That was what hurt the most.  If nothing else, they were friends, weren’t they?  Close ones.  And the idea that he was determined to get through this on his own after everything they’d been through, everything they had shared and talked about, was, frankly, a little hurtful.  It felt as if he didn’t trust her to help him, and maybe she couldn’t, but she could _damn well_ try, and the fact that he didn’t even give her a chance grated on her.  Perhaps her anger was irrational.  She would never be able to fully understand what he’d gone through that night, and she knew that, but it hurt that he thought the best answer was to run from her, from the friendship they had worked so hard to build.

Hawke didn’t understand how a night that had started so wonderfully (at least by the time they’d gotten past the stairs) could end with so much pain.

She shook her head, forcing herself back to the matter at hand.  This was not the time to dwell on it. 

The evening had taken a serious turn after spending the afternoon entertaining nobility with her mother.  Hawke had been practically bored to tears, which (despite her best efforts trying to push it from her mind) left little else to do but relive the night she’d spent with Fenris a thousand times over, just trying to understand what had happened.  When the notice came from the Viscount, requesting an audience with her as soon as she was able, she nearly hugged the messenger, so relieved was she at the change of pace, despite the dire state of the situation.  She couldn't remember the last time she’d donned her armour so fast.  Grabbing her daggers, she’d kissed her mother’s cheek and was out the door before the woman could ask where she was going. 

She was far less excited about it now, standing outside of Fenris' mansion with her forehead pressed to the door and her eyes closed in an attempt to bolster herself. Behind her, she could hear the last-minute bustle of Hightown residents and servants struggling to make it to the market before the shops closed, could feel the heat of the sun fading and the coolness of night spread gooseflesh over her skin. She focused on that for a moment, trying to distract her mind, to no avail.

“Get it together, Daedra,” she murmured, before talking a deep breath and holding it for a moment.  Finally, she let it escape through her teeth and brought her hand up to knock on the door, waiting a few moments before stepping inside.

He met her at the entrance to his study, having most likely recognized her knock.

The room was even more unkempt than usual.  There were books and papers all over the floor, the wooden chair they used for lessons was smashed in one corner, one of the benches was overturned and there was an impressive collection of wine bottles scattered around the room—some empty, others half-full. 

“Hawke,” he said apprehensively.

“Are you sober?” she asked, refusing to mince words after giving a pointed glance to the numerous bottles sprawled across the study. 

It was not what she wanted to ask.  She wanted to ask him each and every question he’d left her with that night two weeks before.  Why he left.  What his _damned problem_ was and why he was so against her helping him with it.  But there were more pressing matters demanding their attention, and their personal issues would have to wait.

“At the moment,” he responded drily.

“Good.  Because we need you,” she said.

His shoulders straightened, and she could see the tension leave him with the prospect of a distraction.  “What’s happened?” 

“I’ve just come from a meeting with the Viscount,” she explained.  “A Qunari delegate’s gone missing.  I—we—need your knowledge of the Qunari in case something goes wrong.”

He grabbed his sword from its place against the wall, strapping it to his back.  “Explain on the way.  The Arishok will not be happy if something happens to that delegation.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“Who else is with you?” he asked as they started down over the stairs.

“No one, right now.  I sent Aveline on ahead to brief Varric at The Hanged Man; we’re to meet them there.”  They stepped out into the evening air as she continued, “She and the Seneschal are worried that the city guard is involved after several of them failed to report in, and if that is the case, we might find some answers there.”

“Understood,” he replied.  “We should hurry then.”

Hawke desperately wanted to broach the subject of the night they had shared, but knew it would only make things worse, and now was not the time for an argument.  But _Maker_ , did the walk to the tavern have to be so unbearably _awkward_?  She had a gift for deflecting awkwardness with humour, but of course that gift was nowhere to be found now, when she needed it most.  What had happened to the companionship they had shared?  The lessons, the late-night talks?  She had grown so accustomed to joking with him (or, well, _at_ him) when they walked together, and missed the way he would shake his head in exasperation while trying to hide the way his lips tilted upwards ever so slightly.  The expression was unbelievably endearing. 

Now, his face was drawn studiously forward, his brow furrowed, and veiled sorrow in his eyes that she still recognized from seeing it the night he left her.  This new pain was not something she knew what to do with, especially since she had an (albeit unknowing) hand in putting it there.  Hawke always tried to use her knack for dumb jokes to make people laugh, but in this situation, she honestly didn’t know how.  It was like she was walking with a _stranger_ , rather than someone she had known for the better part of four years.  Had she ruined their friendship with her desire for something more?  She had originally kissed him in an attempt to stop him from pushing her away, but what ended up happening in the end was _so much worse_.

 _Don’t exclude him from the blame, either,_ she reminded herself.  He had been just as eager as she, once she broke the ice.  If their friendship had been broken beyond repair then they had both played a part in it.  But would he have done anything—that night _or_ in the future—had she not made the first move?  She honestly didn’t know.

When they reached the Hanged Man and opened the door, Hawke let out a quiet sigh of relief at the sight of her friends inside.  But judging by the look on Aveline’s face, as well as the terror in the expression of the guardsman whose tunic she currently had hold of as she yanked him close, the Guard-Captain’s worries had come to fruition.  “Who bought you?” Aveline demanded, bringing her face close, subjecting the man to the full brunt of her fury, “Who bought the honour of a proud guard of Kirkwall and made him a useless drunken jackass?*”

A few feet away, Hawke spied Varric, who seemed amused by the Guard-Captain throwing her weight around with the intent to intimidate when he knew how much of a softie she really was.  Her anger was worlds less frightening when it wasn’t directed at him, it seemed.

“I don’t—I don’t know!”  the disgraced guard stammered, but cowed when Aveline’s sneer deepened and she brought her face even closer.  “He—he was a templar.  I swear!  He had the seal of the grand cleric and everything!  It’s true!”

After a moment, the Guard-Captain slowly, gently—and with great difficulty, Hawke noticed—released the man from her grasp, folding her hand into a fist at her side as she let out a breath through her nose.  When she spoke again, her voice was tight with control:  “The penalty for abandoning your post is ten days on the wall.  I expect you to report in the morning.”

As the man fled the tavern, likely thanking the Maker and whatever other god would listen that he still had his job—not to mention his head—Hawke approached her friend with a frown.

“There’s your answer,” Aveline said, turning towards her.  “A templar.” 

 “With the grand cleric’s seal, no less.  Well done.”

“Before you arrived, he mentioned something about ‘showing the city what to do with heathen oxmen.’”  Varric added.

“So, zealots then.” Hawke surmised, running a hand through her hair.  “Well that’s just _bloody lovely_.”

 “Have the Qunari been told of the situation?”  Fenris asked as he stepped up to them.

“Not yet.”  She replied, sighing.  “They deserve to know, but I wasn’t sure if I should.”

“The Arishok needs to know.  If those Qunari are killed, it will be better if he knows you at least attempted to find them.”

“Are we so sure that’s a good idea?” Varric asked.  “The man’s on edge.  If we tell him about this, it could set him off.”

“It won’t,” Fenris responded.  “Not yet.  We’re the ones with the information and the leads.  We’re the ones with the best chance of finding them, and for all your differences, he has a grudging respect for you, Hawke.”

“Lucky me,” she muttered, her hands lifting in mock excitement.

“As long as he knows you’re on the trail,” he continued, “he won’t do anything until he finds out what happened.”

“And if we don’t tell him they’re missing, and they die?” she asked.

He was silent for a moment, likely thinking of the possibilities, and judging by his frown, none of them seemed good.  Finally, he shook his head, “I don’t know what will happen.  But I do know what he is capable of, and I’m sure I do not need to tell you.”

She shook her head, “No, you don’t.  I can imagine well enough on my own, thank you.”

“So, what now?”  Varric asked.

“I trust Fenris’ judgement when it comes to the Qunari, so we head to the docks and inform the Arishok first.”  Hawke glanced between Varric and Aveline, valiantly avoiding making eye-contact with Fenris as she shrugged, “Then, I suppose we have no choice but to head to the Chantry.”

“What?” Aveline protested, “So, you plan to take the captain of the guard to accuse the grand cleric of funding zealots?”

“Don’t forget the kidnapped Qunari.  That too.”  Hawke added, and then gestured for them to follow her out.  “Dear Aveline, I thought you wanted to get to the bottom of this.”

“Notably, we _are_ relying on the word of a drunk.”

Hawke turned to look over her shoulder to the elf behind her, “It’s the only lead we have, Fenris.  Do you have any better ideas?”  Inwardly wincing at her clipped tone while addressing him, she looked back to Aveline before he had a chance to say anything and shrugged, “You’re welcome to wait outside the chantry.  That or, we could always split up again, I suppose.  I mean, if _you_ want to be the one to tell the Arishok his delegate’s missing, be my guest.”

Varric snickered at her side as Aveline forced out a heavy sigh through her nose, “Some days, Hawke.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The actual line is, “... made him a drunken mabari bitch?” but I have issue with that line and other lines in which Fereldans refer to mabari and bitches in a negative light. Given that dogs—and mabari in particular—are held in very high esteem in Ferelden, it seems out of character for Aveline to say something like that as a Fereldan, as a soldier, and as a woman.


	8. Chapter 8

**Forward  
** Part Two

Fenris was right about the Arishok, thankfully.  The Qunari wasn’t exactly _happy_ to learn the status of his delegation, but he appreciated the courtesy Hawke showed in informing him.  She told him she had a lead she was following, so he left it in her hands… for now.  But she knew it was just a matter of time before he decided enough was enough.

For the moment, they had one other stop to make in their quest to find out what happened to the missing delegate.

Meeting Sister—or rather, _Mother_ Petrice at the Chantry was enough to make Hawke want to turn around and go back home.  Hawke was understandably unlikely to trust the woman given that the last time she did so, a contingent of Qunari ended up dead along with one of their mages—something Petrice had personally arranged.  The insufferable woman was indignant when they requested an audience with Grand Cleric Elthina, but the moment Hawke mentioned that the grand cleric’s seal was used to authorize the abduction, she changed her tune and suddenly fell silent.

“A pause that says you knew,” Hawke surmised, narrowing her eyes on the woman, “but does Her Grace?”

Petrice’s shoulders stiffened, and her chin lifted in defiance, “The grand cleric trusts her stewards to enact the wishes of The Maker.”

Hawke’s brow shot up, “Well, it sounds like you’ve been bad!  This will shock Her Grace, no doubt.”

Seeing the way Petrice’s jaw visibly clenched as she forced a controlled breath out through her nose, the word “stubborn” escaping her lips in a huff, Hawke just smiled sweetly.

“Yes, it’s one of my finer—and more _frustrating_ qualities, I’ve been told.”  She made pointed eye-contact with Fenris, whose shoulders tensed before he looked away.

She turned back to Petrice, and the two women stared one another down, a battle of wills the Mother knew she couldn’t win as Hawke’s arms folded across her chest.

“All right, Serah Hawke,” the woman said finally.  “If you won’t abandon this, let me offer you something.  The templar you seek is a radical who has grown… unreliable.  Confronting him may do us all a favour.”

“And you know this… how?” Hawke asked.

“He is my former bodyguard, Ser Varnell,” she explained.  “Assume what you wish.  But I offer him to you as… reconciliation.”

 _I sincerely doubt that,_ Hawke thought sardonically.

“Meet me at this location,” the woman continued, pulling out a scrap of parchment from her robes and handing it to her.  “I invite you, Serah Hawke.  Come see the unrest these Qunari have inspired.”

And with that, the Mother left them in the hall as Hawke looked down at the parchment in her hands.  _Darktown.  Colour me unsurprised._

“Need I say I’m skeptical?” Aveline mused from behind her.

“Yeah,” Varric agreed, pointedly clearing his throat, “that’s a set-up.”

Hawke could only sigh, lifting one shoulder in a shrug.  “It’s her game… for the moment.”

* * *

When Hawke and her companions made their way to the undercity, and finally came upon the wayward templar, they watched quietly from the doorway, unwilling to draw any attention until they had gotten a decent survey of the situation.  Varnell had the Qunari delegate and his guards chained helplessly to a wall.  She could spare only a moment to wonder exactly  _how_ he got them there—even with their weapons bound into their sheaths, Qunari were fierce warriors—three of their guards and likely even the delegate should have been more than capable of taking down a single templar.  The man must have enlisted help from the crowd of zealots gathering in the room to separate them long enough to entrap them.  Many of said zealots had probably died in the process, but Varnell seemed too far gone to care.

“Like any beast, remove the fangs, and it is lost,” the templar was saying, preaching to his gathered congregation as he stalked in front of the Qunari.  “They are weak before the faithful of the Maker.  The only certainty in their precious _Qun_ is death before the righteous.”  As if to emphasize his point, he propelled his fist right into the gut of one of the delegate’s guards.  The Qunari jolted in pain, but his eyes narrowed fiercely on the man once he recovered, and even at this distance, Hawke could hear the growl he emitted.

Of course, _that_ would be the moment Petrice chose to show up.  “Ser Varnell!” the woman shouted, stalking out past them and into the room, drawing all eyes to the doorway as she entered—effectively ruining Hawke’s element of surprise.  Looking back at her companions with a shake of her head, Hawke rolled her eyes and threw up her hands in exasperation before stepping out into the room as well.

“Take a knee, faithful,” the templar said.  “The Chantry blesses us.”

“You claim a blessing when you have used the authority of the grand cleric so openly?  You have brought wrath down upon you!  You remember Serah Hawke?” she asked, creeping around Hawke from behind like the venomous snake she was.

The glare that Hawke shot the woman was positively _murderous_.

 “The Qunari have friends, templar,” Petrice continued, gesturing to Hawke.  “How will you answer their allegations?”

“And she uses us, once again,” Varric muttered.  “Surprising _no one_.”

“You want a fight?” Hawke asked the templar.  “Then face someone whose weapons are _not_ bound!”

Varnell suddenly stepped up to one of the restrained Qunari and held a knife to his neck.  Hawke took a futile step forward, her hand reaching for one of her blades, but Varnell slit his throat before she or her companions had a chance to save him.  “Righteous!” he exclaimed, before moving down the line to the next prisoner.  “Destroy them!”

“Varric, stop him!” she shouted, whipping her blades out of their sheaths and jumping into action.

Hawke had been expecting a fight, and she had expected to be fighting zealots, but she had _not_ expected to be fighting so _many_ of them.  She could see the dwarf moving along the edge of the battlefield, swaying Bianca about wildly as he tried to find a good vantage point, but unfortunately, his short height had him at a disadvantage, and there were no decently elevated positions in the room.  Varnell’s congregation seemed determined to block the templar from the archer’s view, and there were so _many_ of them that by the time they’d have managed to thin the horde enough for Bianca to get a shot off, it would have been too late.  “I can’t get a clear shot!” Varric yelled.

Hawke kicked out the knee of a zealot, feeling it crunch unpleasantly under her boot, and slammed the hilt of her dagger into his temple.  When he crumpled to the ground, unconscious, she turned to see how far away she was from the Qunari and Varnell. 

Too far.

He had already killed the second guard, and was moving onto the third when Hawke held her breath, smashed a smoke grenade at her feet, and shrank into the shadows, trying to get closer as she pulled her shiv from her belt. 

She was taking aim, when she felt someone behind her.  The mere moment it took her to simply slip behind the untrained swordsman and slit his throat was still too long.  The third guard was dead, and she cursed bitterly to herself.

Three more zealots noticed what she was doing when they saw their comrade fall, and converged on her just as Varnell was approaching the Qunari delegate.  Her shiv in one hand and a dagger in the other, she shook her head, strategizing, prioritizing, wondering how she could possibly take the three of them down fast enough to clear a path to Varnell.

Suddenly, there was a flash, and a blur of blue light as Fenris appeared before her, knocking back one assailant with the flat of his blade and shoving his foot into the gut of another.  Hawke used the distraction to slip her dagger into the lower back of the third, withdrawing it without sparing the downed zealot a glance before whirling back to her clear view of Varnell.  “Stop him!” the elf shouted from her left.

She wasted no time letting her knife fly, and it sailed through the air, embedding itself right in the back of the man’s head at the base of the skull.  His body pitched forward, and slid to the ground in a heap, but not before using the last of his strength and his body’s momentum to shove his blade into the delegate’s chest.  The restrained Qunari went tense for a moment, before falling limp.

“Damn it!” she shouted, but didn’t have time to dwell on her failure while the battle still raged around her, so she turned and jumped back into the fray.

By the time they finally cut through the last of the untrained zealots with few injuries to speak of, the delegate was already dead, and Petrice was nowhere to be found.

The lingering silence that followed was heavy with the weight of their failure.

Hawke surveyed the scene before her, taking in the four dead Qunari and the dead templar before turning to regard the rest of the room, shaking her head at the number of bodies left on the ground.   Some were simply incapacitated, others bleeding but not terminal, but most left her and her companions no choice but to kill them.  Pinching the bridge of her nose, she let out a sigh.  She couldn’t decide if it was fortunate for her and her companions that most of their opponents were grossly untrained, manipulated into picking up a blade for a cause they didn’t fully understand, or if it was simply a pointless waste of life. 

One-on-one, the zealots never put up much of a challenge, but the sheer _number_ of people who took up arms against Hawke and her friends was so large that it still presented a very difficult fight.  The fact that so many people agreed with Varnell’s claims about the Qunari was worrying, to say the least.  Getting the giants out of Kirkwall without a war breaking out was getting more and more unlikely—especially with Petrice and her lackeys provoking them at every possible opportunity.  The crazed woman was determined to drag the whole city into a holy war, and Hawke was running out of ideas of how to stop it.

It was a sad reality that it had come to something so drastic, and now the Qunari delegate and his guards were dead, killed under proposed Chantry authority while they stood restrained and defenceless before Hawke had a chance to save them.

She did not look forward to explaining _this_ to the Arishok.

“Maker, _why_ is this city so _insane_?” she grumbled to herself, shoving a hand through her hair with a frustrated sigh.  “ _Ferelden_ was better than this, and they had a _Blight_.”

Fenris approached her quietly, his brow furrowed in concern.  “The Arishok needs to know what happened.”

“And I’ll tell him,” she replied.  “But first, the Viscount.  Aveline?” she asked, massaging her temples with her thumb and forefinger.

“Of course,” the woman responded with a curt nod before starting off for the door.  “I’ll bring a contingent of my guards down as well.”

“Varric, could you get Anders?”  She gestured to the bodies of the zealots littered all across the floor—particularly the ones who were still… writhing.  “Some of these people could use some healing.”

“So long as they don’t try to kill us again afterwards,” the dwarf muttered, but ambled off into the undercity anyway.

“Right,” she mumbled to herself as they left.  Looking up at the dead delegate, she hefted out a sigh, shaking her head, “I’ll just be here… trying to figure out how to explain this to the Arishok without starting a bloody war.”

“The Qunari respect honesty,” Fenris said.  “Lying to him will only make it worse.”

“Of that much, I’m aware,” Hawke responded, still not looking away from the dead Qunari.  “I don’t plan on lying to him, but soon, what I say to him won’t matter anymore.  Kirkwall’s been digging its own grave this whole time.  At this point, I’m just trying to keep it from _jumping in_.”

“Or being pushed?”

She met his eyes, folding her arms over her chest, “Exactly.” 

They stared at one another for a moment, and Hawke was keenly aware of the fact that they were alone again—well, mostly.  Before she could dwell on it any longer, she pulled two vials of elfroot potion from her belt and handed one to Fenris.  “Here,” she said, withdrawing a roll of bandages from a pouch, “let’s see if we can do something about the minor injuries before Anders gets here.”

“You… want to help the people who just tried to kill us?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Well, if one of them tries to kill you as you’re attempting to save their life, feel free to let them die.”

He sighed, but nodded silently, and they both got to work, stooping warily beside two of the zealots still alive on the floor.

After a moment, she found herself laughing mirthlessly, “You know, just a few hours ago, I was sipping tea with my mother and Comptesse Baudelaire, bored out of my tree, and waiting for something exciting to happen.”  Fenris looked over at her curiously as she wrapped a bandage around a young woman’s arm and tightly tied it off.  

Shaking her head, she continued the thought with a bitter sigh: “The Maker has a damned _awful_ sense of humour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Split this part into two, so here: have two updates. Hopefully that'll at least make up for the delay.


	9. Chapter 9

**Forward  
** Part Three

Once Varric and Aveline returned with their respective charges in tow, Hawke and Fenris set off to inform the Arishok.  The aftermath was out of her hands, now, and she did not envy the Viscount.  Telling the Arishok what happened was her duty, but the Viscount was in charge of what happened afterwards:  diplomacy and damage control— _her_ versions of which usually involved a throwing knife and someone left bleeding on the ground. 

Diplomacy was… _not_ something she was known for.

The Arishok took the news rather well, considering.  She had a feeling he already knew—or at least, had _suspected_ what had happened when she walked into the camp with none of the missing Qunari, and nothing to show for it.

“So you did not rescue my delegate, but you killed those responsible,” he surmised as she approached, leaning forward in his throne with his elbows on his knees.  Hawke stopped in front of him, squaring her shoulders, and thankful for Fenris’ unwavering presence at her side.  Despite everything that had happened between them in the recent weeks, he was _there_ , and his presence helped calm the unease snaking up her spine as it always did inside the walls of the Qunari compound. 

Despite it all, she needed the elf with her… now, more than ever.

“Yes,” she replied.

“How do you explain the condition of their bodies?” the Arishok asked her.

“The abuse of zealots,” she explained.  “A fanatic used them to incite hostility towards the Qunari from others of his kind.”

He was quiet for a moment, grunting softly in thought as he stared her down, before he leaned back and inhaled sharply, “I accept that.”

“Well… that was easier than I expected.”

“I have seen every vice and weakness of your kind—and how few of you take responsibility,” he explained.  “Your viscount remains a fool, but you are not.”

She attempted to hide the degree of surprise on her face, but wasn’t particularly successful.  _Certainly_ not when the Qunari Arishok—a fearsome, lumbering, horned, warlord who was twice her size and could probably snap her in half—gave her a respectful nod of his head and bid her farewell:  “ _Panahedan,_ Hawke.  I will keep one good thought about your kind.”

She decided not to question his respect, and they made their way out of the compound before he could change his mind.

The journey back to Hightown and their respective homes was tense, and quiet yet again.  Hawke wasn’t really feeling a desire to dwell on the events of the day, and Fenris had no desire to discuss what had happened between them two weeks prior, which left little else to talk about.  But the silence was positively _deafening_ between them, so she had to say _something_.  The opportunity presented itself when they made their way up the stairs from the Lowtown marketplace before transitioning into the estates and elaborate décor that marked the streets of Hightown.  “You remember when I tripped up these stairs on the way back from the Hanged Man, and fractured my ankle?”

Her heart felt lighter in her chest for a moment, when she noticed the corner of his mouth lift upwards with that little smirk she liked so much.  “Yes.  I also remember two other occasions in which you did the very same thing.”

“Well, yes, but I was sober for those two, and I didn’t actually injure myself those times.  When I broke my ankle, I was… mildly inebriated.”

He faced her, incredulous, “ _Mildly_?  Your foot immediately swelled to twice its size, and you didn’t even feel any _pain_.  I only managed to get you to sit down when we finally got to my mansion.”

“I fought with you trying to pull my boot off for ten minutes,” she recalled, giggling softly with a shake of her head.  “I was _so certain_ I was fine.”

“I had to use my markings to phase the boot off your foot.”

“Really?”  She looked up at him, her eyes wide with surprise, “I don’t remember that.”

“You were too busy _laughing_ to notice.”

She laughed brightly at the memory—and _Maker_ , it felt good to laugh with him again.  “Staying off my foot for weeks afterwards was the worst part!  I had lots of time to read, but Andraste’s _ass_ , I was so restless!” she exclaimed.  “At least sprains heal faster—especially with magic.  But healing broken bones is _so much_ more complicated, and those _damned_ crutches…” she trailed off, grumbling quietly at the memory.  She’d never known how difficult it would be to bear her entire body weight on her hands and arms for three straight weeks just to get around, until she’d been forced to do so.  “I had to get Bodhan to respond to all my letters; my hands were so sore.  For a man who was a traveling merchant for most of his adult life, that dwarf has _awful_ penmanship.”

When they got to the mansion that served as Fenris’ residence, their laughter began to subside, and they fell back into silence again, the discomfort settling back in.  They both stopped in front of the door.  Hawke was hesitant to leave things as they were, but she could see the stiffness of Fenris’ shoulders, and she didn’t exactly _want_ to make him uncomfortable, but she didn’t want to give up on their friendship either. 

_Oh, to the Void with this!_

“Fenris, I—“

“Goodnight, Hawke,” he interrupted, his gaze falling away from her as he paused for a moment.  “Call on me if you have need of me.”

She felt her shoulders fall, and the anger she’d been holding back the entire night finally started to re-emerge, “… So that’s it then?  Nothing to say for yourself?”

“Hawke, please.”  The emotion in his eyes as he looked down at her, before turning back to his front door, almost made her back down, but she was tired of being angry with him.  If there was a chance she could move past it and they could repair their broken friendship, she was not waiting one more day to try and make it work.  “Go home,” he said.  “You may call on me for my assistance, but I… we…”

“Fenris, I’m not—well, I _am_ angry.  But mostly, I’m just… confused.  Hurt that you couldn’t trust me to help you with this.  I _want_ to help you—you know that, right?”

“I do,” he replied as he opened the door, facing her again, but unable to make eye contact with her.  “But I cannot burden you with my—”

“You are _not_ a burden!”

“Hawke—“

Without meaning to do so, her exasperation boiled over and her fist slammed sideways into the doorframe.  Her eyes were shut tight, and she shook her head fiercely.  “No!”

Stunned to silence, he stared at her in surprise.

“I _do not_ accept that!” she exclaimed, plowing forward through her frustrations now that the dam had been opened.  “If you don’t want to talk about what happened, then _fine!_ We won’t talk about it, you _impossible_ man!  But we’re _friends_ , damn it!  Bloody good ones… aren’t we?”

He met her gaze evenly, “Yes.”

 Her shoulders sank with relief, a heavy sigh escaping her as she looked up at his face, “Well good, then.  I… wasn’t really sure where we stood on that front.”  She crossed her arms, “We have worked _too hard_ to get where we are, only to let this friendship die now.  So, we’re going to move past this, because I couldn’t talk to anyone the way I could talk to you, and the thought of not having you in my life is just… I don’t want to think about it.  So, is that all right with you?”

He was quiet for a moment, thinking.  Before long, he looked up and smiled at her, shaking his head, “I would have it no other way.”

“Good,” she replied, matching his grin with her own.  “Now that that’s settled, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

His brow lifted curiously.  “Tomorrow?”

“I have a couple of books sitting at home that I’ve been meaning to bring over to you for the last few weeks.  I just… well.”  She fell silent for a moment before shaking her head, determined not to dwell on things he had no intention of discussing, “I’ll stop by with them tomorrow afternoon?  Not that you really need my help anymore; I just… I like hearing you read.”

His grin turned wry, and his expression filled with warmth as he gave her a respectful bow of his head, “Then I will see you tomorrow.”

They bid each other farewell, and Hawke walked the short journey back to her estate, feeling markedly lighter.  As she walked up to the front door, she felt herself smile, and for the first time in two weeks, she felt it reach her eyes.   And, as she retired to her room and to her bed, she forced herself not to remember what had happened there two weeks prior, but to focus on the hope blossoming in her chest that perhaps the friendship they’d established had not been shattered beyond repair.

That was as good a start as any, Hawke supposed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, no closure yet, but it's a start! Damn BioWare... 
> 
> Anyway! Moving on! Time to get back to moving chapters over from FFnet. That'll hopefully be a much faster process than writing these has been. :P


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search for Hawke's wayward mother bears fruit. Bitter, bloody, heart-shattering fruit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of "All That Remains". Spoiler warning and trigger warning for character death and subsequent grief.
> 
> Recommended Playlist: [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CzDMxOOHNs) first, and then [this](https://youtu.be/YzKLbB5B0tg?t=1h12m42s). 
> 
> I need a hug after writing this. :(

**Undertow**

The parting of Hawke's fingers allowed the light from the hearth to reflect brilliantly off the polished surface of the silver locket beneath.  It had been pressed so firmly into her palm that it left an imprint in her skin, she realized dimly before closing her fingers around it again, lifting her gaze back to the fire.  

_How did I get here?_

Her memory of the events leading up to the moment they found her mother was crystal clear: Gamlen's worry at Leandra's conspicuous absence.  The white lilies.  Hawke's barely-restrained panic as they followed a trail of blood to the foundry where they'd found the remains of Ninette years prior and finding Leandra's locket on the ground.  And finally, the vision of her mother, stumbling unsteadily towards her, ghostly pale, her eyes empty and void of life and an unsightly scar drawn across her neck refused to relent from her mind's eye.  The way Leandra had raised a hand that wasn't hers—fingers that were too long, too thin—to brush along her daughter's cheek, smiling despite it all, staying strong for her child as she passed into the Fade.

Her stomach lurched at the memory, but she forced it back into submission, returning her gaze to the fire.

Hawke admired her mother for that strength.  She was not that strong, despite her mother's final assurance that this was not the case.  Rather than take tension and pain in stride, she deflected it with stupid jokes and humour, fearful to face it.  “I always save the day,” she'd said.   _But I couldn't save her._

“So _you're_ to blame!”  

She remembered nearly flinching at Gamlen's words—said out of anger, but... true, just the same.  It was the first time Hawke had ever seen her uncle show any sort of affection towards his sister, and it came in the face of her death, racked by the tears Hawke herself hadn't been able to shed.

Even now, her eyes were dry.  Why?  All throughout her life she'd tear up at the slightest provocation, even when angry.  But now, when her mother is _dead_ , she can't shed a damnable tear?  What kind of daughter was she?

Subsequent events of the night were... fuzzy.   There was a distant recollection of her emergence from the foundry into the cool night air, utterly silent as Fenris carried Leandra's... “body” behind her.  She had managed to get back to her home, but she had no memory of passing through the markets of Lowtown, or through the Hightown Estates.  She'd been simply moving, following a habit; retracing footsteps that she'd memorized long ago.  She'd felt... disconnected from her body, from the events of the night, from emotion.

Numb.

Come to think of it, she didn't even remember getting out of her armour.  But she had, hadn't she?  Of course she had.

She raked her free hand through her hair and balanced her elbows on her knees, flames in the hearth forming the shape of her disfigured mother for a moment before she looked away and retreated farther back in her memories, to her childhood; focused on her mother's smile, her laugh, the glare that always made her feel two inches tall, the many— _many—_ times her mother would scold her for her latest con, or throw up her hands in exasperation.

She thought back to the time she'd convinced Carver to eat flour, and it—almost—brought a smile to the surface.

She'd been sitting on the counter, digging sugar out of the jar and shovelling it into her face when Carver had walked in, and the beginnings of a plan wove itself into her mind.  She recalled the way he'd bounded into their parents' room with his face covered in white, tears leaving salty trails through the powdery mess, screaming, “Daedra told me flour tasted like sugar!”  

As Daedra followed him into the room, she remembered watching her mother's mouth twitch—clearly holding back a smile as she stooped to be eye-level with her three-year-old son before shooting a disarming glare over his shoulder to her eldest child.  “And you believed her?”

Her father, Malcolm—so like his oldest daughter—was less successful at masking his mirth.  He was hiding a grin behind his hand and his shoulders shook ever so slightly with barely-contained laughter.

Daedra shrank under her mother's gaze, but couldn't stop the giggles that emerged as she said, “You know me, Mama.  I can be very convincing.”

Leandra shook her head.  “ _Conniving_ is more like it.”

Hawke had been forced to clean the kitchen alone; it had been a disaster zone of flour and sugar, and cleaning it had taken nearly an hour, but it was _so_ worth it to see the look on Carver's face when he took that first fistful of flour and dumped it into his mouth.   

It wasn't long before a familiar voice cut through the weighted silence, and Hawke's bedroom suddenly came back into stark focus as the memory vanished.  “I don't know what to say,” Fenris mumbled as his bare feet padded into the room, “but I am here.”

She didn't look at him, and although she knew he'd come to help, she couldn't stop the way her gut twisted with anger.  “Why?”

He was quiet for a moment.  “I thought...”

“Why did you come here, Fenris?” she asked again.  “To say _I told you so_?  Go ahead.  Say it.  I'm sure you want to.”

“That's not—”

“Magic is a danger, right?”  She turned to look at him.  He was unarmoured, having removed his breastplate and gauntlets either before he entered her room or before he left his mansion, and the absence of the metal gear made him look less intimidating and more like a friend.  She shook it from her mind as she continued:  “It's a curse that taints everything it touches, and it's my own fault, right?  For helping the mages.  I stand up and help them defend their rights, and what do they do in return?  They take my mother from me.  They're all the same.  That's what you're thinking, right?”

He'd relapsed into silence.

“Maker help me, it's what I'm beginning to think, too.”  His brow rose in shock before she looked away again, staring at the floor as her shoulders fell with shame.  “They're gone.  All of them.  Father, Carver, Bethany.  Mother was all I had left, and now she's gone too.  I'm alone because some blood mage _bastard_ couldn't let go of his dead wife!”

Her legs pushed her to her feet of their own accord, and she found herself whirling to face the elf again.  “So yes, mages are bastards; is that what you want me to say?  Condemn my father and baby sister to the same black and white view that you've adopted?  I'm supposed to forget how much Bethany feared the templars?  How often she just wanted to _wish away_ her magic just so she could be normal?  I'm expected to forget all of the tears she shed every time we had to uproot ourselves and move again because the templars were getting just a little too close?  She was _nineteen_ years old.  The sweetest, kindest girl who had her whole life ahead of her, and there wasn't a day that went by that she didn't blame herself for Mother's misery and stress!”

She was projecting, she knew.  It was cruel and unfair of her to throw this at him, struggling to make sense of her own internal conflict and confusion as logic and reason abandoned her in the face of her despair.  Her feet paced wildly in front of the fireplace as everything she'd held inside until now came overflowing to the surface, and she was powerless to stop it.  “All my mother ever wanted was for her children to be safe, but her precious twins were ripped from her, and then she was stuck with _me_ ; the trouble-maker, the con-artist, the one who took sick pleasure in pushing her buttons, and now _she's_ gone, too!”

Why wasn't Fenris saying anything?  Damn him!  Hawke would have preferred to argue with him, to have someone yell at her, if for nothing other than a distraction from the turmoil stirring inside her; the realization that she was alone.  So she rounded on him in fury, stalking up to meet him as the familiar lump formed in her throat and the backs of her eyes began to sting.  She was fully prepared to scream at him again, to unleash all her anger and confusion and hopelessness in a blazing inferno that left nothing in its wake.  But the second she opened her mouth to do so—her shoulders drawn up and her hackles raised—she felt his hands close around her biceps, both gentle and firm, and she froze.  

Her breath hitched, her shoulders sank, and the anger on her face dissolved into fatigue.  The barriers she had unconsciously erected to protect herself had been broken down with a simple touch, and the anger and confusion shattered around her leaving only... grief.

While she had previously been preparing to scream at the elf, what came out instead was a barely-perceptible whisper as she looked into Fenris' eyes:  “I made my father a promise.”

Her face fell into her empty hand, and the tears broke loose like waves crashing against a rocky shoreline, but she was lost in the undertow.  Fenris' arms closed around her, stiff and unsure, and her forehead landed unceremoniously against his chest as hopeless, hiccuping sobs racked her body, her legs collapsing under her as he sank to floor with her.  “I'm sorry, Father,” she was muttering into his chest.  “I couldn't save them.  I'm so sorry.”

Fenris held her through her tears and over time, his body relaxed.  She wasn't certain when he began threading his fingers through her hair in a rhythm that soothed her nerves and sent waves down her back that were almost hypnotic in her exhaustion, but she bloody well wasn't about to tell him to stop.  Her tears abated, the violent shaking of her shoulders eased to the occasional hitching breath, and they sat together, the elf's presence beside her sharing the weight of her sorrow.  Neither spoke, for fear of breaking the tenuous atmosphere of calm that had settled over them.  

Eventually, she remembered the locket still in her hand.  Looking down at it, she pushed off from his chest and gingerly brushed her hands over the smooth metal, as if any real pressure would crumble it to dust.

For his part, Fenris hadn’t said a word the whole time, but finally spoke when he noticed what she was doing.  “I... believe she would want you to have it.”

She chuckled mirthlessly.  “You don't know my mother.  If she wanted anyone to have it, it would have been Bethany.  I don't... deserve it.”

He didn't respond, but held out his hand beside her own in a silent question.  She acquiesced, not in the mood to argue, and handed the locket to him.  He fumbled with the clasp for a moment before lowering it in front of her face and securing it around her neck without so much as the barest touch of his skin to hers.

“You should get some sleep,” he muttered, his arms falling away.

She opened her mouth to say something but stopped for a moment, shaking her head before lowering her gaze to the floor.  “If I close my eyes, I'm afraid of what I might see.”

“I will stay tonight,” he said after a moment, and she met his eyes—so tender and careful, his brow creased with concern and his jaw clenching in thought, “If you wish.  But I cannot offer more than that.  I'm sorry.”

Her arms encircled his body, her cheek tight against his chest as she let out a sigh.  “To be honest, I wasn't even expecting that much.  But I would like it if you stayed.”

Fenris nodded, standing and helping her to her feet, and she hesitated for a moment before approaching the bed, turning back the covers and settling herself beneath them.  He rounded the other side and sat up with his back against the headboard as she turned on her side toward him, letting her eyes fall closed.

He settled beside her in his typical silence, and the steady rhythm of his breath nearly lulled her into the Fade before she spoke again: “Thank you.  For everything.”

“I will be here if you need me, Hawke.”

She felt herself nod, her fingers clutched to the locket secured to her neck, and drifted off into a deep sleep that housed no nightmares, but echoed with her mother's laughter instead.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and her merry band of misfits just can't catch a break, these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8kN932nDrbo&feature=youtu.be), and if you like, you can combine it with [this](http://weather.ambient-mixer.com/journey-through-a-storm) soundscape I threw together to help set the scene. 
> 
> Enjoy! And also, I'm sorry. You'll see why.

**Shadows  
** Part One

Sundermount loomed above them, casting the world in a shadow deepened by the overcast sky.  Rain pelted the hood of Hawke's cloak like pebbles, her feet wet and her boots slipping in the mud.  Merrill trailed behind them, utterly silent.  She was... _less than happy_ with the way things had turned out, and Hawke wouldn't allow herself to feel guilty about it.  She'd had a bad feeling about this _eluvian_ from the beginning, and when Merrill's Keeper urged her not to give the artifact to the young elven woman, she found she could not forsake the older woman's experience.  She couldn't fathom why Merrill wanted to fix the mirror in the first place—not after knowing what it did to her old clanmate.  Some things were better just left alone.

The inclement weather only compounded the tension.  In conjunction with their exhaustion and various states of mild injury after dealing with the Varterral (and its many spindly legs), no one was inherently happy with the situation.  Isabela was muttering quietly to herself, nursing a set of bruised ribs.  Fenris' scowl was even darker than usual; there was a nasty gash over his left eyebrow, causing pale red streaks to mar the otherwise colourless hair matted to his forehead, and an even worse cut along his bicep, slicing through the intricate patterns of lyrium.  And Merrill?  She just simply _wasn't_ in the mood.  That tiny elf was surprisingly vicious when she was angry.  

Hawke was walking with a limp, her ankle throbbing, thanks to a failed evasion of the huge spider-like creature.  Her thoughts were just focused on anxiously anticipating the moment she could return to her estate, strip off her sopping leathers and soak in a warm bath until the water cooled and the ache in her muscles soothed.

Perhaps she should have opted to bring Anders with them, but having him bicker incessantly with the blood mage just wasn't something that sounded too appealing at the time.  The same could be said for Fenris, but he had been surprisingly quiet for most of the trip—despite his opinion of Merrill.  (She'd have taken Aveline if she could, but the woman was up to her ears in paperwork when Hawke entered her office.  She didn't even look up at her over the stacks piled on her desk.  Hawke noticed the stressed creases along her brow, and the Guard-Captain had simply waved her off before she could say anything, so she made a mental note to drag the woman to the Hanged Man when they returned.)

When the bandits ambushed them just outside of the Dalish camp, Hawke made no effort to suppress her agitated groan.  There were eight of them, and they had probably noticed how tired Hawke and her entourage were and perceived them as easy prey.  Which, of course, was not the case, but she was still exhausted, and fighting with a very twisted, very sore ankle was _not_ her idea of fun.  The others seemed to share her enthusiasm (or lack thereof), but Fenris tore into their foes regardless, as she and Isabela rounded behind the attackers and took advantage of their preoccupation with the glowing warrior elf.  Isabela took the lead when it came to diverting and directing attention away from Merrill and towards Fenris, who cleaved massive arcs through the crowd of bandits with practised ease.  Hawke spent most of the battle shrouded in shadow, stabbing her daggers into those least expecting it, occasionally stepping out into the open to take down an enemy getting a little too close to Fenris, preventing him from swinging his massive sword to its full length.

Injured though Hawke and her companions were, their enemies dwindled (as they always did),  so she took a moment to survey the surroundings.  She counted three remaining foes—two rogues and a warrior— and was just about to retrieve a smoke flask from her belt to conceal herself again when the hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she sensed someone behind her.  She had only enough time to duck down and to the left before the blade of a menacingly sharp dagger stabbed the empty air just over her shoulder, near enough to sever a few wild strands of hair that had fallen free from the loose ponytail at the base of her neck.

_Too close!  Way too close!_

Flipping her own daggers in her hands, she moved to stab them backwards into the body behind her, but before she had a chance, a boot connected with the back of her knee, kicking it out, and she faltered... _spectacularly_ .  Her boots lost their grip in the mud, and her footing failed her, fire ripping through her injured ankle anew as she slipped and caught herself on her hands, “Ow!   _Shit_!”

Hawke didn't have time to say any more than that.  She rolled out of range of the other rogue's blades, and scrambled back to her feet, gritting her teeth through an entirely fresh throb in her ankle and adjusting her grip on her weapons through the slick of mud.

They stood a meter apart, rounding each other, eyes locked.  Her opponent was a woman.  Tall, with dark eyes and blonde hair.  Hawke scowled darkly at her.   _Oh, you picked the_ ** _wrong_** _day._ She retrieved the smoke flask she had been attempting to grab from her belt before she was so _rudely_ interrupted, and the other rogue's features twisted in a feral grin.  She leapt at her, but Hawke held her breath and stood her ground, pivoting in a dodge on her good foot and smashing the flask at the woman's feet as she stumbled by.  The blonde erupted into a fit of coughs, so Hawke wasted no time slipping her blade into a gap in the woman's armour beneath her arm and into what her assassin's training knew to be her heart.  The rogue went utterly stiff for a moment before crumpling to the ground in a heap.

Blowing out her cheeks with a sigh, Hawke whirled and felt a rush of relief and satisfaction, seeing the last vestiges of the bandit group fall to the ground.  Isabela was making quick work of the last remaining rogue, and Fenris had just retrieved his hand from the chest of the warrior—his other hand wiping blood, rainwater, and his own hair out of his eyes, and Hawke stopped to watch him for a moment.  Maker, he was beautiful.  She would never tire of seeing him after a battle; the way his jaw clenched with residual anxiety, his shoulders rotating to relieve tension and fatigue, and his eyes surveying the scene for any remaining foes... that wild, battle-hardened stare never ceased to make her knees weak.  It only made the utter _lack_ of acknowledgement of what had happened between them that much more frustrating.  She was _smitten_ with the man, and she had long since come to terms with it.  But with Fenris refusing to speak about the one night they had shared together, and how hard they had worked to bring their friendship past the initial awkwardness and anger (on Hawke's part) in the months since, any development of their relationship past that was left... up in the air.

And, as _maddening_ as it was for Hawke, she was not about to force him into anything, but she would be there to listen when he decided he was ready to discuss it.

 _Wait a minute._  Hawke stopped, taking a quick stock of the forms on the ground as a realization suddenly occurred to her: there were only seven bodies.   _I counted two rogues aside from the one attacking me.  Isabela just finished one off._ **_Shit_ ** _, where's the other one?_

Time slowed to a crawl, and she turned sharply on her heel, her injured ankle forgotten, her eyes peeled wide for anything that might alert her to the rogue's presence if he was concealed in shadow.  She studied her companions.  Merrill and Isabela were both out in the open—no real shadows to speak of.  

Fenris was standing near an alcove of trees that case a wide shadow over him, and Hawke felt her heart fall into the pit of her stomach as her feet started to move.  “Fenris!” she shouted. “Get out of th—”

Before she could finish her warning, the tips of two daggers protruded through Fenris's chest, above and below his breastplate, creating two blotches of red that spread outwards from the blades along his jerkin before they were violently ripped from his body.  The elf sank to his knees, his moss green eyes wide in disbelief, the hilt of his sword slipping from his fingers, and Hawke's heart stopped dead in her chest for a split-second before picking back up at twice its normal pace.

Then, she was running, fury twisting her brow, and terror lancing through every nerve in her body.  “ **_No!_ ** _”_ she screamed, ripping a small shiv from her belt and whipping it at the bandit with her usual deadly precision.  It hurtled through the air and embedded itself into the man's skull with a dull _thunk_ and with such force that his head snapped backwards before he fell on his back, stone dead.

Seconds later, she was at the elf's side, her knees slipping in the mud, and she let him fall into her arms, open wide to catch him before he could hit the ground.  “Fenris!”  She pressed one of her hands to a wound, fishing in her pack for a healing potion with the other.  “Merrill, go to your clan and get help!  Now!”

The young elf gave her a single nod and took off in the direction of the compound.

Hawke uncorked the potion with her teeth and tilted his head up, helping him swallow as she poured it into his mouth.  She was vainly hoping for a miracle, but was unsurprised to discover that the potion did little to help.  It sealed the gash on his forehead, and the redness around the cut on his bicep faded, but it did not stem the flow of blood seeping through her fingers in the face of such an injury.  

“Help me with this,” she said to Isabela, fumbling with the buckles of his breastplate as the pirate settled beside her, and together, they managed to pull it off as Hawke surveyed the extent of the damage, bending as far to the side as she could without moving him to study what she could see of the wounds on his back.  Two stab wounds entered from the back; one at the upper left of his chest, the other on the lower right, angled downwards so that it exited below the breastplate.  Blasted rogue knew what he was doing—two jagged daggers stabbed into Fenris’ back and through the front of his chest before being ripped back out again, with the entry wounds strategically placed to ensure they went all the way through.  A calculated backstab.  The only way the bastard could have done more damage was if he’d twisted the damn things before ripping them out.  Hawke shuttered at even the thought of it, pressing her hands against the wounds.

“Fenris, stay with me!”

His eyes were locked onto hers.  Somehow, amidst the pain, the grunts of effort, and agonizing gurgles of blood as it rushed into his airway, he still managed to lift his armoured hand, and the tips of two clawed fingers brushed lightly, gently, against her cheek before he let it fall back to the ground beside him.  Tears suddenly blurred her sight, and every memory the two had shared together came rushing to the surface with rapt clarity.  His early (and rather poor) attempts at flattery.  His dry responses to her ridiculous jokes, the exasperated roll of his eyes.  The fine Antivan wine the two had shared—the one bottle that was decorating the wall of his mansion.  Their reading lessons.  Sparring in his foyer.  The _one touch_ that had started it all as he was turning to leave her estate; the rush of heat that fluttered in her belly as he shoved her against the wall, and then looked at her with such sorrow in his green eyes when he realized what he had done, and then... well.

The muddy ground was turning a deep, dark shade of maroon around her knees, Fenris' blood seeping through her breeches as she held his head in her lap.  A choked sob forced its way out as she fought the desire to fold her hand into his own, occupied as her hands were with maintaining pressure on the gaping wounds in his chest.  “Help is coming, Fenris,” she muttered.  “We're going to get you to a healer; you hear me?  You'll be all right.  You'll get through this.  You just have to stay with me.”

The nod he provided her with was nearly imperceptible, but when his eyelids began to droop, she sacrificed the pressure of one of her hands to take hold of his, shaking it to regain his attention.  “Fenris!  Look at me!  You have to stay awake, all right?  Stay awake!”

His eyes fluttered open again, briefly, but drifted closed a second time and Hawke felt real, naked terror rip through her chest.

_Oh, sweet Maker, no!_


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: [This song](https://youtu.be/ZUvVXGqaPOo), and open [this soundscape](http://environment-other.ambient-mixer.com/camping-in-the-woods) in another tab to set the scene. 
> 
> Many thanks to my dear friend [ Laryn Chillbreeze](https://www.fanfiction.net/u/2744543/Laryn-Chillbreeze) for beta-ing this chapter (and the previous one) for me despite never having played Dragon Age, and for helping with the music selections. And for ripping the song for this chapter out of the main video and looping it to post on its own for the purpose of this story. And for being amazing, really. <3
> 
> Also, I decided on a whim a couple of nights ago that I'm gonna write a third part to this particular vignette. Because I realized that I never did specify how Fenris ends up with the red fabric on his arm that we see in the game, and the way I wrote the romance scene didn't really allow for it in my canon. So my own explanation for it will follow up in the next chapter.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy! ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ ~♪

**Shadows  
** Part Two

Dusk cast a gentle orange glow over the Dalish camp, and the rain had long since stopped.  Hawke was an exhausted mess.  It probably didn't help that she was still in her damp leathers, caked with mud and covered in blood that was not her own.  The elves had offered them shelter through the rain, but even when it was still pouring, Hawke refused to take it unless it was just outside of the tent where the healers and herbalists were struggling to save Fenris' life.

Merrill had returned with several others from her clan mere moments after he lost consciousness, and they rushed him back to the camp and into what she guessed was a medical tent, with elves bustling about like a swarm of bees.  Hawke hadn't moved from her spot outside the tent, alternating between standing and sitting when her position grew tiring.  Her injured ankle was forgotten.  Her minor cuts and bruises were forgotten.  The one thing on her mind was that Fenris come out of this alive.

Despite their misgivings about humans, the Dalish camp had temporarily offered their hospitality (albeit begrudgingly).  They even offered them some of the food the hunters had brought back when the day rolled into evening, though Hawke had politely declined.  Merrill had shown Isabela to a nearby stream in which she could bathe, and offered the same courtesy to Hawke, but again, she refused.

Other than, “No, thank you,” she hadn't uttered a word to anyone since she arrived.

By the time the sky had begun to darken, she didn't know how much time had passed, but it had to have been at least a couple hours.  Still, no news from inside the tent.  She bit her bottom lip and nervously rubbed her hands over her arms.  

She was fine, of course.  Completely fine.  She wasn't intensely worried that she might never look into Fenris' beautiful green eyes again, or be on the receiving end of his little smile, his tender gaze.  She wasn't utterly terrified that she may no longer be able to listen to his deep, rough timbre, or his dry responses to her stupid jokes, or that brief, sharp laugh of his that was such a precious rarity to begin with.  She was in no way painstakingly horrified that she might lose one of the few members of their little band of misfits that never really expected anything of her, or pressured her into doing something, or to pick a side.  Sure, he was vocal about his opinions—as many of them were—regarding mages and their treatment, but beyond that it still remained her choice.

She wasn't completely terrified that, despite it all, despite everything that had happened between them and the uncertainty of whether this _thing_ between them would ever be more than one single night, she might never get the chance to tell him that she lo—

“Hawke.”

Isabela's voice halted her thoughts, but she didn't acknowledge the pirate, though Hawke was aware of her presence.

“You've been standing here for hours,” the woman continued.  “You should really go bathe in the stream; you're beginning to stink something fierce.”

Still, silence.  Isabela hesitated a moment before she spoke again.  “He's in good hands, Hawke.  Merrill says Keeper Marethari is one of the most gifted healers in all the Dalish clans.”

Another beat passed, and Hawke still said nothing.

“You can't stand here all night,” the pirate reasoned.  “Go bathe.  I'll even clean your weapons and armour for you while you're gone.”

Well... she _did_ need a bath.  She could smell the dried blood and sweat radiating from her body, and her hair felt disgustingly matted to her forehead.  A few more moments passed in thought before Hawke finally spoke: “Will you let me know if anything changes?”  Her voice sounded foreign to her own ears.

Isabela had been in the middle of walking away when she spoke, but Hawke heard her take a couple of steps back.  “I promise, if anything changes, you'll be the first to know.”

Her legs refused to move for a moment as she debated whether she would actually take the woman up on her offer.  But she finally came to the conclusion that the waiting was going to drive her insane, and if Fenris _did_ recover, she didn't want him to wake up to her smelling like smelly wet leather, and covered in his blood.  That might not be the most welcoming sight to wake up to.  

So, she turned on her heel, reluctantly tearing her gaze from the tent where she knew he was, and nodded to Isabela.  “Show me to the stream.”

A roguish grin crept across the Rivaini's face.  “With pleasure.”

“And leave me there _alone_ , if you please,” she muttered, looking pointedly at the other woman.

Isabela's head fell back and she regarded the sky in exasperation.  “You never let me have any fun.”

Hawke actually smiled at that, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and she stooped to retrieve her pack.  Thankfully, she always prepared a fresh change of clothing upon trips to Sundermount and the Wounded Coast, as there was really no way to predict what would happen on their various excursions.

Isabela led her out of the camp and through the trees, and before long, she started to hear the gentle trickle of water, and they stopped along the bank of a calm, slow, brook that wound down from the mountain.  Crickets had begun to chirp, creating a melancholy melody that went hand-in-hand with her anxiety.

Dropping her pack at her feet and stripping down to the padding she wore under her armour, she regarded the pirate and let out a sigh as Isabela pulled one of her own daggers from her back and handed it to her just in case.  Then, Isabela gathered the discarded armour and weapons as Hawke turned back to the stream."

“Good thing it's a warm evening,” the Rivaini said as Hawke approached the water and stooped to dip a hand in.  “It's not exactly a hot spring.”

Hawke said nothing in response, and the pregnant silence loomed for a few moments until Isabela huffed out a sigh.  “We'll let you know the second we get any news, all right?”

Hawke nodded.  

She heard the woman's retreating footsteps again, but called out to her before she got too far: “And Isabela?”

The Rivaini stopped, “Hmm?”

Hawke looked back to face the woman over her shoulder.  “Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”  A smile crossed over the Isabela’s face, and there was a moment of kindness in her eyes before it was washed away by mirth.  “I mean, really.  Don't mention it.  I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

And then, she was alone.  She peeled off her remaining clothing and crept slowly into the water until it reached her knees, and just... stood there for a time, watching the water flow past her legs to an unknown beyond.  After a moment, she collapsed, sitting in the water, uncaring of the biting cold and the gooseflesh that crept over her skin.  She pulled one knee to her chest and used it to balance her elbow as she held her forehead in her hand, letting out a shaky breath.

She lifted her free hand, and droplets of water fell from the tips of her fingers to land with tiny ripples in the stream.  Fenris' blood made dark reddish swirls in the brook, barely visible in the waning daylight, before being briskly washed away.

“How did this happen?” she asked herself aloud.  Blame had been creeping up on her, and while the part of her mind that was constantly searching for some form of logic was telling her that there was nothing she could have done (she couldn't stop time, of course, despite whatever stories Varric was spinning about her), she couldn't help but feel somewhat guilty.  And yet, she couldn't explain why.   _She_ wasn't the one who stabbed him twice in the back, and Fenris didn’t have the keen developed senses of a rogue (despite his uncanny speed); he couldn't exactly see the man coming.

_Maker, I was looking right at him.  If I’d been just a few seconds faster..._

_But you weren't, Daedra.  It's done.  No sense dwelling on the_ **_if only_** _s_ _while he's still struggling for life.  The best you can do is just wait._

She could only hope that the stubborn determination she had come to both love and hate about him would serve to bring him back to her—or, well, to _life_ anyway.  Anything beyond that was... uncertain.

 _Maker, I can't lose him too_.

He kept her honest when she had both the Circle and templars breathing down her neck.  He was a valued voice of opposition every time she considered helping a mage plucking on her heartstrings (even if he wasn't always successful), and honestly, she would be ripping her hair out in frustration had he not been there to assist her in understanding the Qunari (she'd be _damned_ if she ever left him behind during a visit to the Arishok).  He kept her sane.  He didn't awkwardly talk her ear off after her mother died, like others were wont to do.  In fact, she'd completely exploded at him, and he just stood there and _took it_ until she'd broken down entirely.  He'd known exactly what she needed, and knew her better than anyone save for perhaps Aveline.

Realizing that she'd spent the last several minutes sitting in the water rather than actually _bathing_ , she shook her head, running her hands through her hair, and stood.  She waded further out into the stream until it reached her waist, dunked her head beneath the water and set about what she'd initially gone out there to do.

Some time later, after dressing and making an attempt to rinse at least _some_ of the blood from her previous clothing, she had barely taken two steps back into the camp when she nearly collided with Merrill, who had been running blindly in her direction.  Hawke placed both hands on the elf's shoulders to steady her as the young elf turned those big (deceptively) innocent green eyes up to meet her face.  “Oh!  Hawke!”

Hawke felt her anxiety twist her stomach into a knot as she stared at the mage.  “What is it?  Is he...”

“He's all right!  Keeper Marethari says he's through the worst of it, and as long as he doesn't try to move too quickly, he'll be fine.”

If there had been another time in her life that she had felt such an incredible wave of relief, she had no memory of it.  The archdemon could have been miraculously revived and amassing the largest force of darkspawn in the history of Thedas, and she would have barrelled through the gates of the Black City itself if it meant seeing Fenris alive and breathing.

“He's not yet conscious, but the Keeper says you can see him if you wish.”

She didn't think to thank the girl (or anyone, for that matter) as she brushed past the mage and took off running for the medical tent, ducking under the flap with her eyes wide.

He was on his back, unmoving save for the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest—which would have been bare if not for the thick layer of bandages wrapped around it.  She eased out the breath she was holding and approached him, reaching out her hand.  There was a moment’s hesitation, but she reconsidered with a smile tugging the corner of her mouth, placing her palm against his cheek briefly before settling it on top of his hand.  Maker’s breath, she'd almost _lost_ him!  She would exercise restraint when he woke up.

A mirthless chuckle escaped her, and she shook her head.  “I don't care it if takes us _years_ , I'm teaching you to sense when someone's behind you.”

_I can't handle this a second time._

Hawke had no idea how many hours had passed by the time sleep claimed her.  Somehow, she'd ended up on her knees, leaning forward onto his cot with her head resting on her arms, clasping his hand in one of her own, but it was when she felt a reciprocated squeeze on that hand that her dreams receded like a bolt of lightning.  Her head shot upwards, causing a terrible pain her neck from her awkward choice of sleeping positions, but she ignored it for the moment.  She looked at him, blinking bleary eyes to see that his own were open and he was looking at her with that little half-smile that, just a few hours prior, she'd been so fearful that she'd never see again.

She rubbed her eyes with her free hand for a moment in disbelief, until she heard his voice, rough and scratchy and quiet, utter her name: “Hawke.”

A thousand thoughts blinked through her mind.  Things she wanted to say; things she _couldn't_ say.  She'd even prepared a joking remark for when he awoke, but the moment he looked at her, awake, _alive_ , everything she thought she would say, all of the words skittered away like traitorous little mice, leaving her with just one tiny, whispered word.  
  
“... Hi.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recommended Listening: The [same soundscape](http://environment-other.ambient-mixer.com/camping-in-the-woods) from the last chapter in its own tab. Play [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6SQRCUMEEt0) for the first half of the chapter, and then [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=42EjOcgv_rk) for the rest.

**Shadows  
** Part Three

Time moved slowly in the Dalish camp. Hawke spent several days there, hovering over Fenris and monitoring his health as best she could whenever the healers would allow her, and volunteering to help them with anything she could get her hands on. More often than not, they lamented that she was simply getting in the way before shooing her outside again, but it didn't stop her from asking.

As the better part of a week passed, Hawke began to grow more comfortable in her surroundings. And as the elves grew more accustomed to her presence, she started throwing herself into whatever she could assist with around the camp. Partially because she wanted something to keep her busy when she wasn't hovering over Fenris like a mother hen, and also because she didn't wish to be waited on (“May as well earn my keep,” she'd said). But if she was honest? The main reason she contributed was because this collective of elves settled in the wilderness, at the base of a mountain, felt more like _home_ to a farm girl from Lothering than the opulent estates and trussed-up nobility of Hightown ever did.

Sometimes, she would help prepare the clan's meals. And when Hawke's intolerance of spicy food became widely known, she endured the elves' ceaseless teasing with grace, and poise, and absolutely no sarcasm whatsoever, _thank you very much_. Other times, she would find herself sparring with the hunters, duelling with fellow blade-fighters, while the archers gave her an introductory lesson. She found a new respect for how Sebastian and Varric fought (not to say she'd ever made light of archery, but firing a bow was _nothing_ like throwing a blade; the first time she hit the center target with an arrow she nearly _squealed_ with glee). She grew very fond of a little girl named An'ya, who made it abundantly clear upon introducing herself to Hawke that she'd been named after the Dalish elf who became the Hero of Ferelden. Hawke found that she rather enjoyed entertaining An'ya's curiosity as well as that of her friends, who had limited experience with humans—if any at all—and peppered her with questions. They always listened so intently to her wild stories about life in Kirkwall, _and_ they laughed at her jokes, which was a nice change.

When it became apparent that the mounting disapproval towards Merrill in the eyes of her former clanmates began to weigh on the elven mage, Isabela decided to accompany her back to the city, while Hawke and Fenris remained behind until he was well enough to travel.

By the time Fenris' health improved to the point where he could move short distances, he frequently grew restless sitting inside the medical tent. So on the days it was clear outside, Hawke used the mealtimes to get him out, bringing him food and sitting with him as they ate together on the same creaky bench that had been Hawke's perch that first, anxious evening as the rest of the elves ate in their  _aravels_ or around the large communal fire.

These evenings, they would sit and watch as the elves went about their business, silently regarding their way of life. It was a quiet life, Hawke found, but it was anything but simple, and it was worthy of respect. There were no idle nobles wandering about with little else to do than complain and delegate. The hunters worked hard, the artisans worked harder, and the children all had someone to look up to. Every single individual had a part to play; a role. A reason to _belong._ There was _history_ here; community, and friendship among a tight-knit group of nomadic elves that loved and respected one other. And at the head of it all, was Keeper Marethari, who loved each and every one of her charges, and whose expression had seemed to twist with heartbreak every time she looked at Merrill.

Hawke found it difficult to reconcile this sense of community and togetherness with the disdain they openly showed Merrill, one of their own, who had felt their scorn so intensely that she had to _leave_. Why?

Surely, _someone_ must have cared for her other than Keeper Marethari?

Hawke's heart went out to the girl at that realization. She was beginning to understand why Merrill left the clan in the first place, and it wasn't just because of her blood magic. She got the distinct impression that being the Keeper's First had not allowed Merrill much opportunity to make friends, or establish any sort of reputation for herself as anything other than an outsider to her own people—even _before_ she left the Clan. Despite Merrill's blood magic, and the fact that they rarely saw eye-to-eye, Hawke was beginning to understand the young woman's dogged determination to restore that blighted— _literally—_ mirror. She must have had so much pressure on her to prove herself worthy of her station, to contribute to Elvhen history and solidify her status as First. _So much_ of the Elvhen had been lost. She could hardly fault the girl for wanting to reclaim a piece of it—tainted though it was. And when the _eluvian_ had taken the life of one clanmate and tainted another, sending said clanmate on a journey that would make her a hero, Hawke could respect Merrill's desire to restore it to what it once was. She didn't exactly _understand_ it, but she respected it.

What she _could_ understand was the pressure to prove one's worth. For Hawke, it was the desire to prove herself as the protector that she promised her father on his deathbed she would be. She earnestly hoped Merrill would be more successful in her goal than she was.

Perhaps Merrill really _could_ cleanse the damn thing. But every time Hawke looked at the _eluvian_ , it wasn't her reflection she saw, but Bethany's. Her baby sister's ghostly pallor, the black veins snaking over her neck. The unnatural yellow glaze spread over her sister's eyes. _Tainted._ Whenever Hawke looked at that mirror, all she saw was her sister lying on the floor of the Deep Roads, begging her to end her suffering.

“You're oddly quiet, tonight.”

Hawke's gaze turned to her left, seeing Fenris looking pointedly at her plate of scarcely-touched food. His own was nearly empty. “Sorry,” she said. “Just... thinking.”

He looked ahead again, studying the elves gathered around the camp. “About?”

“Something you're not going to like,” she explained, wincing a little as her hand brushed through her hair.

He lifted a brow. “Should I ask?”

He didn't need to. He was a valued voice of opposition, after all. “I think I'm going to give Merrill the _arulin'holm._ ”

His eyes flicked to her in surprise, “What? Why?”

“Because even though the _sight_ of that mirror sends shivers down my spine, she seems confident that she can cleanse it. And ever since we _met_ her, she has never once lied to us. She was upfront about her blood magic, and didn't attempt to hide it from us, because she knew we would be working together. She has never tried to manipulate anyone with it. She's hardly ever _used_ it aside from working on that mirror. But _because_ she was so upfront about her blood magic, I have never given that girl one _ounce_ of my trust.”

His gaze grew stricken, as if betrayed.

“Don't misunderstand me,” she said, lifting a placating hand. “I'm not suddenly advocating for all blood mages.”

He glared at her. “No, of course not; you're just _enabling_ one of them.”

“What do you want me to say, Fenris?” she asked, shrugging helplessly. “She made her choice before she even _met_ us. Look, all I'm saying is that she is a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions, and her own damn mistakes. This is important to her, and she's not my sister. She's not my responsibility, and it's not my job to protect her. If she messes this up, she'll be held accountable for it. But if she truly believes she can fix this thing, then what right do I have to stop her from trying? What right do I have to withhold an artifact of her people from her, whether it's the _eluvian_ or the tool she believes can help fix it?”

The elf shook his head and let out a frustrated breath, silence falling for a few moments.

“What if she _can_?” Hawke continued, her voice falling quiet. “What if she _does_? Think about it, Fenris. If she can _cleanse the_ _Blight_ from a corrupted mirror... who's to say she couldn't cleanse it from a person? Think of what it could mean for those affected by the Blight. For the Wardens! What if this leads to a way to stop anyone from ever dying the way that Bethany died again?”

His gaze returned to her, and while the irritation was still there, there was an undercurrent of understanding in his eyes. “It always starts with good intentions. Do you think every maleficar in the Imperium learned blood magic just because they wanted the power? Most of them believed they were making a _sacrifice_ for the greater good.” He scoffed. “The power to control and manipulate others just so happened to be a convenient side-effect. This is _dangerous_ ground, Hawke.”

“I know. I thought I was doing the right thing, and maybe I was, but... I don't feel right keeping this from her. She's aware of the danger, the risk to herself. But she accepts it because this is important to her, and she believes she can make a difference.”

“That may even be true,” he replied, “but it is a slippery slope.”

“Why do you think I always ask your opinion, Fenris?" she asked him, her lips canting slowly upwards. "It's because I'm relying on you to help me stay near the top of the hill." Her expression turned serious again as she sighed slowly, turning her gaze back to the camp. "If it becomes too much for her, and she becomes a danger to anyone other than herself, then we will handle it, I promise. But for now, I think she's earned, at the very least, a modicum of trust.”

“I will never trust a blood mage,” he muttered with a sneer.

“I understand, and I'm not asking _you_ to. But I _am_ asking you to trust me. No matter the outcome, I promise you: I will not let that demon's influence spread any further than it already has. It's got its claws in Merrill, but at least she's aware of it, and she's resisted it so far. But the second I see a change in her, she's done.”

Fenris let his breath escape in an exasperated huff. He had always admired Hawke's compassion, but he would be lying if he said he never worried that it would be her downfall.  “I will be watching her," he grumbled. " _Closely_.”

“Isn't that what you said back when we first met? I would expect no less.” She nudged his elbow gently with her own, but much as he tried to hide it, the way he tensed and instinctively moved his arm away didn't miss her attention. _Venhedis._

“Your arm is still bothering you?” she asked.  "They didn't heal it?"

He shook his head, "They had more pressing concerns." The cut had been stitched, freshly bandaged and poulticed, but when it came to healing of a magical nature, the elves' priorities were elsewhere—namely, the gaping holes in his torso. It was understandable that they'd left the cut on his arm to heal on its own, but Fenris appreciated her company, and had not wished for her to tiptoe around him for fear of hurting him, so he'd kept it quiet.

Hawke paused for a moment in contemplation before her eyes widened, as if something had suddenly occurred to her. “I have something that might help. Sit tight; I'll be right back.”

She rose off the bench and headed across the camp into the tent that had served as her home for the last several days. She was inside for no more than a moment before she reemerged, her pack slung over her shoulder, and made her way back to him. She dropped the pack on the ground beside the bench and settled herself beside him again, reaching into it and fishing around for a moment until she withdrew a red handkerchief and handed it to him. “Look at this.”

He took it, spreading it out in his hands and staring in confusion at the patterned embroidery. It was impeccable quality, the needlework meticulous, but the pattern stitched into the red fabric was gaudy and garish, with bright colours that clashed harshly with one another. It was, quite frankly, atrocious. But, stitched into the bottom left corner of the material was what he recognized as the Amell crest—or rather, he supposed it would be considered the _Hawke_ crest at this point. The coat of arms was mounted proudly on the exterior wall of Hawke's ancestral estate.

“When my mother ran away with my father, she left her entire family fortune behind,” Hawke explained. “I was raised on a farm, but my mother had a privileged life up to that point. So living on a farm, raising animals and a small crop was a bit of an adjustment for her. Not to say she didn't enjoy it; I think she rather did, but there were certain things she missed about the life she left behind. She was always a socialite, and loved to mingle. But she was married to an apostate, so she, naturally, had to keep a bit of a low profile.”

Fenris sat quietly, listening to her. She spoke so little of her childhood recently—ever since the loss of her mother—but he enjoyed watching the way her eyes would gloss over with fond recollection as she spoke about her life before Kirkwall. It was a side of her he had never been privy to, and he enjoyed learning about her past, and the experiences that had built her into the compassionate, sardonic, _maddeningly_ stubborn woman she was today.

“One day, when I was about seven or eight, I remember her lamenting over a lack of fancy dinnerware—or even a quality set of handkerchiefs,” she said, and chuckled lightly after a moment. “My father's response was, 'Oh, for all those classy dinner parties that we have?'”

He felt his mouth twitch in amusement at the way she pitched her voice lower to be reminiscent of that of her father, and he found that he was beginning to understand where Hawke received her ridiculous sense of humour.

“But his sarcasm didn't stop him from buying a massive set of red handkerchiefs and paying some poor embroiderer an exorbitant amount of money that we didn't have," she went on, "with the express instruction to make them into the highest quality, most _hideous_ things he would ever lay his eyes on. Father gave them to her for Satinalia that year. Maker, there were _dozens_ of them, wrapped in the finest packaging he could find. When my mother opened them, she exploded into the brightest, most surprised laughter I had ever heard from her. Called him silly and said, 'Now what in the Maker's name am I supposed to use these atrocious things for?' He just said, 'Now, love, you can have all the classy parties you want, and invite the entire village, if you please!'"

A quiet breath of laughter escaped him, causing a painful twinge in his chest, and while he knew that she had noticed it, she remained blessedly silent about it. “Your father sounds an awful lot like you,” he said.

“You're not the first to tell me that,” she responded, returning his grin, the emerald of her eyes shining with the firelight. “My mother never used the handkerchiefs of course, but she never got rid of them. We were finding them all over the house for _years_ ; even as we were moving around until we finally settled in Lothering. Before that, though, Bethany came into her magic, and my father started training her. One day, she fell out of a tree and cut up her leg pretty badly. Father was never really skilled in healing magic, so the best he could do was make sure it wasn't broken, stitch up the worst of the cuts, wrap it in bandages, and send her on her merry way. But he had recently begun teaching her about the dangers of blood magic, so when the blood started to seep through the bandages, she couldn't stand the sight of it. She was scared. So my mother,” Hawke reached out and took the cloth from him, flipping it over in his hands to the backside, where the terrible pattern on the other side was reflected in the stitching in only a vague outline, “dug up one of these old handkerchiefs, flipped it round and tied it over the bandages around Bethany's leg, with the red side facing outward so that if the blood seeped through the cloth, it wouldn't be so noticeable.”

She went quiet for a moment as she withdrew her hands, holding them in her lap. “It went on like that for a while. Mother finally had a use for these awful things, and she continued to do so, for Bethany's sake, anytime the twins and I got hurt—which was a lot; I wasn't the most... careful child.”

“You? _Reckless_?” he responded. “Shocking.”

She just gave him a withering look. “ _Anyway,_ my sister eventually got old enough that she didn't need them anymore. But when Carver and I joined the army and left for Ostagar, we both took one with us. Of course, they hadn't been used that way in years, but it was more of a... sentimental thing by that point. When I got there, I took mine to one of the Tranquil, and had them enchant it with a mild healing rune. It was all that I could afford, at the time.”

“Why?” he prodded, after she fell silent again, and she shook her head.

“I don't know. It was... I thought... I suppose I was scared? It was war, the Darkspawn were coming, there were rumours of an Archdemon, of a new Blight,” she said, shrugging slightly. “I guess I thought it couldn't hurt to be prepared just in case.”

Hawke reached out to him and took the cloth from his fingers, meeting his eyes for a moment in a silent question. He nodded at her, and she began to wrap the handkerchief around the bandaged cut on his bicep as she continued: “In the end, I never needed to use it, thankfully. Elfroot potions were always more convenient in the heat of a battle. But I thought it wouldn't hurt to have in an emergency, so I've carried it with me ever since.” Her hands were gentle as she knotted the cloth and secured it to his arm, even as the contact made a tiny bite of pain snake down to his elbow with only a mild tensing of the appendage to show for it. She gave him an apologetic look, but he dismissed it with a shake of his head. Still, he didn't miss the way her fingers lingered on the cloth for a moment before she pulled them away.

“And now it's yours, for however long you'll have it,” she said with a satisfied nod and a broad grin that shone on her face for a moment before it dimmed suddenly, her cheeks flushing bright red and her eyes going wide again. “Unless it reacts badly to the lyrium— _Maker_ I didn't think of that. Shit. I'm sorry.”

The flustered look on her face, her bald empathy and compassion, her gentleness, the earnest emerald of her eyes; it all simply... _arrested_ him for a moment, and he felt something clench painfully in his chest in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries as she sputtered out a litany of apologies. _Venhedis, this woman will be the death of me._

“Fenris, are you all right?” she asked, an eyebrow lifting slightly in apprehension and he realized she was still waiting for a response. “Should I remo—”

“It's _fine_ , Hawke,” he interrupted her, meeting her eyes, and she seemed to relax a little, but there was still the slightest bit of worry cinching her brow together, so he allowed a grateful smile to crawl across his face. “Thank you.”

Her shoulders lowered with relief, and the worry dissolved as she beamed at him, her apprehension gone as quickly as it had appeared as she regarded him for a moment.  Her voice was soft when she finally spoke again.

“You're welcome."

 


End file.
